Made of Stone
by Morrigan24601
Summary: Very loosely based around the proposal scene from Kay. Erik asks Christine for a marriage of convenience until his impending death, but things gradually unfold rather differently than expected.
1. Chapter I - The Shyest Songbird

We sat there, he and I, by the flickering light of the fire in the hearth. I could feel his eyes on me. Always, always his eyes were fixed on me these days, every time I drew a single breath in his home, it seemed; and yet, his demeanor had been so utterly, uncharacteristically aloof of late that I hardly knew what to make of it.

It was silent in the little drawing-room, a strange quiet having fallen after our latest lesson. I was pretending to be heavily engaged in a weighty leather tome I had found on one of his end-tables; in truth I could hardly concentrate on the words, which I had belatedly realized were written in his own scrawled hand and seemed to swim before my eyes. But I could not bear to look up from the book; I could feel him looking at me, and I had no wish at present to meet the frightening intensity of his eyes.

"Christine," he said at last – and while the soft, low smoothness of his voice sent a familiar sensuous ripple down my spine, I also thought I detected a trace of amusement in his tone – "I had no idea you had such a keen interest in the art of stonemasonry."

I snapped the book shut, my cheeks burning. I heard his chuckle from across the room. "You needn't laugh," I said hotly, still not looking at him. "I should think you'd be pleased that I'm attempting to expand my mind a little."

"Is that so?" he asked lightly. "Then I don't suppose you'd mind if I asked you a few questions to ascertain just how much of my notes you retained in half an hour."

My stomach dropped. I quickly placed the book aside. "Truth be told, it was a bit difficult to read your writing," I said, trying not to betray the fact that he had caught me so off guard. "Had it not been for the frontispiece, I might have been worried that it was a private journal of some kind…although I don't suppose you would have left something of _that_ nature out on your end-table."

He laughed heartily at that. "No, indeed," he said genially, and then silence fell over the two of us again for a few moments. The sudden, strange awkwardness became palpable enough to cut with a knife; the heat came into my face again, up the back of my neck to the roots of my hair. We had, at one point, fallen into a kind of easy, highly predictable rhythm during my visits, a near-ritualistic set of routines. But lately Erik had largely begun to deviate from the strict structure of my previous visits, at times unaccountably distant and aloof and at other times strangely intense to the point of practically being invasive, and I had grown increasingly unsure as to what I was meant to do next when I was in his company.

"You did well to-day," he said at length, and I managed a small smile, though I avoided looking at him still. "I daresay your voice is going to rival the best singers in Europe before long – I'm sorry, my dear, does it bother you when I praise you so?" he asked quickly as I ducked my head in a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

"A little," I admitted, but hastily added, "It isn't that I don't _want_ praise, Erik—"

"No, of course, my dear, I understand," he said kindly. "Upon my word, you are quite possibly the shyest songbird I have ever seen – do not mistake me, Christine, I mean you no insult; this is only a curious observation. Most of your peers appear content to preen and bask in the spotlight of praise, reveling in the flowers thrown at their feet and the stares of young, dashing would-be suitors. You are the only one I have known to shrink from such attentions – _mostly_ ," he added not quite under his breath, and it was as though all the air had been taken out of my lungs for a moment…he _knew_ about Raoul _,_ I knew that he knew, and yet this was the closest thing to an admission that I had heard from him on the subject. Our conversations had never yet steered this dangerously close to such uncharted waters, and I wondered that it had never been brought up before.

What puzzled and infuriated me the most about Erik was the fact that I could never quite seem to glean the exact nature of his regard for me. At times, it seemed more fatherly than anything, sometimes domineering, and altogether _businesslike_ during our lessons – and yet, at other times, it seemed a bit more…unnameable.

No, I could not – _would_ not – give that strange look in his eyes a name, for I feared what would happen if I did. If I admitted it, admitted the truth of what I wondered, things might start to happen more quickly than I could fathom them, and I knew that I was not in the least bit prepared for such frightening territory.

It was why I was not comfortable looking at him now, why I avoided his eyes whenever I could. The thought of his face, especially whilst hidden behind a mask, did not frighten me half so much as what I could plainly see in his eyes.

Was he miffed about Raoul merely out of fatherly protectiveness, or was it because of…

No. The word _jealousy_ , while it seemed strangely to fit Erik like a glove, was not a word I felt comfortable using. It suggested… _feelings_ on his part that made me more than a little discomfited to contemplate.

I had been staring at my shoes for far too long, and I realized I could not avoid his gaze forever. With an iron will I finally brought my eyes up to meet him, suppressing a shiver as he glanced at me for a long moment, and then – to my surprise – turned his head to look at the fire.

I regarded him for a moment – the long, lean lines of his body, the relaxed and easy manner in which he stretched out his legs from where he sat in his high-backed chair. And yet there was a latent tension in him, too, as though the strange, uncomfortable energy crackling in the air between us had descended upon his very shoulders.

A very queer thought indeed took hold of me then – the strangest thought I'd had yet that evening, or any evening for that matter.

The garden of my imagination conjured up a mental picture – disturbing and yet strangely, unexpectedly _pleasurable_ , this image – of Erik and myself sitting in his drawing-room, not as teacher and student, but as something entirely _else_. Close together, my smaller hand clasped gently in his long fingers, as he read to me some passage from the adventure stories of which I was fond.

The image shook me to my core; it was impossible, unthinkable, utterly preposterous. To think that my clearly over-active imagination had conjured up _Erik_ in the role of my husband or lover! It was not to be thought of – I could not possibly suffer myself to entertain such a strange notion. For that matter, why on earth should I _want_ to entertain it? He had lied to me, flagrantly deceived me almost beyond forgiveness at the beginning of our acquaintance; he was all too often prone to volatile, unpredictable black moods, and he had verbally lashed and prodded at me more times than I could count, certainly far more than Raoul or any gentleman would have ever dared, and –

 _And he is not at all handsome,_ my treacherous, hateful mind whispered in a paroxysm of self-doubt. _You think that too, don't you? For all his myriad faults, might you not be able to overlook or at least tolerate them were it not for the horror of his face?_

I could not help my sudden flush, but I was forced to lodge an ardent mental protest. _No, indeed,_ I thought primly. If _Raoul_ had ever lied to me, if he had ever betrayed my trust so completely, I supposed with not a small amount of certainty that I should scorn him. I supposed that if such a thing ever _were_ to happen, and if he were to apologize profusely and genuinely enough and I considered his remorse to be utterly sincere, I would be able to forgive such a trespass and continue on as his friend. But friendship was one thing; romance was quite another. _It has nothing to do with the way he looks,_ I thought _. With the way either of them look._

And there lay the genuine problem at the heart of my consternation - Erik had never once outright apologized for his deceit, had never once promised to never deceive me again. I had, it was true, forgiven Erik in my heart enough to continue on as his student, one might even say his friend, but anything more than this was sheer folly. Despite my earlier flight of fancy, I could not conceive of it. Even the handsomest man could not possibly have won my affections with such an apparent lack of remorse, and Erik was anything but handsome.

Ah, but here lay yet another problem – _yes_ , his face was terrible, and many times he had all the personality to match it, but for all of his faults, Erik really could be strangely kind. His strict stridence during lessons was ever tempered by equal amounts of praise, and many was the time I had found an encouraging note tucked away somewhere only I would find it – in the drawer of the vanity table in my dressing-room immediately after a performance, or mysteriously appearing in the pocket of my coat on a chilly day or evening (I preferred not to imagine how or when he managed this, although it never happened when I was at my own flat or outside of the Opera at all, so there was that comfort, at least). My room in his underground house always had a fresh bouquet of flowers sitting in the vase upon my night-stand when I arrived; he knew my favorite was peonies, and somehow he had insofar managed to get them even when the weather had turned cold. I never asked how he obtained them at such times; after all, it was not as though one could or would illegally or otherwise improprietously obtain _flowers_ of all things, was it? I simply told myself that it was _Erik;_ he had his ways, and that was that.

But for all this, the fact of the matter remained, or so I told myself – ravaged face or no, moments of questionable kindness or no, exceedingly brilliant talent and intellect or no, Erik was simply unsuitable to be someone of any greater importance to me than what he already was. And he _was_ important to me in a great many respects; that could not be disputed. Romance, however, was not – _could not_ – be one of them.

I gradually became aware that throughout my musings, Erik's eyes had once more turned toward me. His fingers drummed slowly upon the arms of his chair; my own eyes drifted cautiously in that direction, and against my far better judgment I became slightly mesmerized by the sight of his long, pale fingers curling up and down, the soft _thump-thump_ that his fingers made when they would hit the fabric.

He shifted in his chair, moved his legs a bit, straightened. I felt warm, too warm; I wanted to be away. I wanted to be home, in my own bed. I suddenly became very interested in my shoes again, but he was having none of it this time.

"You've been very quiet this evening, Christine," he said.

"So have you," I replied, a bit brashly. I bit my lip after I said it, lacing my hands together in my lap.

"I have…a great deal on my mind," Erik said, a note of discomfort creeping into his voice. I looked at him curiously before I could help myself. His hands had begun shaking a little.

"Are you all right?" I asked, sudden concern springing up in embarrassment's wake. "You're not—"

"No, Christine," he sighed, "I'm not going to have another attack just yet. At least, I don't think as much."

"Erik—" I said with a little alarm, but he shook his head. "Listen to me," he said. "I have other things to speak of at present, other matters far more pressing, but before I do so, I will tell you simply that _you need not worry about such things._ If it ever comes to that, if I ever…fall ill while you're here, you go and you get the daroga. He knows what to do. I've mentioned this before, haven't I?"

"You have," I mumbled, feeling entirely useless all of a sudden. Of course he would never trust me to do whatever was needed myself. He thought me very young and stupid, didn't he? And at any rate, why on earth should I care _what_ he thought?

 _Because,_ my mind began to murmur again, _because—_

But I would not give that a voice. I would not. No more unbidden images, no more strange flights of twisted fantasy. Erik was…well, he was _Erik._ That alone was enough.

He straightened in his chair again, a little taller this time. I didn't want to look at him, but I couldn't seem to help it.

"Christine," he said, and cleared his throat. "Christine, I…" He paused. "Devil take it," I heard him mutter, "the _devil_ take it, I can't, I can't possibly…excuse me for a moment, Christine."

Bewildered beyond expression, I sat helplessly in my chair as he rose and went to the kitchen without looking at me. I heard the _clink_ of a glass, the clatter of a bottle, the sound of a drink being poured. And I heard him muttering to himself in that strange, mad way of his, though from the next room I couldn't make out exactly what he was saying.

At length he returned, having apparently consumed his drink while out of my view. "Will you have a cognac?" he asked me, standing a bit awkwardly beside his chair. "This particular year I have is excellent."

I politely declined, and he nodded, his hands suddenly seeming to come alive with a strange nervousness. He rubbed them against each other a bit, as if to ward off a chill, though the room was quite warm due to the fire.

We had altered our positions, it seemed – now he was the one looking at his shoes, and I was the one staring. A strange feeling began to quiver in my belly, unease mixed with something I didn't want to name.

"Christine," he said, as he had before, as though he were trying out my name on his tongue despite having said it a thousand times. _He has the manner of a schoolboy,_ I thought, _a schoolboy terrified of his headmaster,_ and that was an exceedingly disquieting thought, for up to this point, he had always been the master, and I the shrinking student. I didn't quite know what was happening, but suddenly I felt a strange feeling infusing my bones. It was heady; it was powerful. I suddenly had an inkling that for all of his uncanny physical strength, his intellect, his talents and gifts and prowess, he was _frightened of me,_ though I could not begin to fathom why.

"Erik," I said as gently as I could manage, "please. What is the matter?"

He took a deep breath. "Christine, I…as you know, as you _must_ know – or perhaps you don't, at that – for a very long time I've…well…that is to say, I've…" He took another breath, and one hand came up to absent-mindedly rub the back of his neck. Generally Erik had a habit of appearing either ageless or quite mature and learned in his manner and way of speaking, and despite knowing his natural age to be far more advanced than my own, I could not help but think that he had never before seemed so oddly fumbling and inexperienced as he did at this moment. It was altogether unlike him. It was highly disconcerting, and it was almost… _endearing._

"I might as well tell you I have no idea how to go about these things," he said in a rush, his eyes darting about the room, landing anywhere but on me – again, a rarity considering how often he had been looking at me nearly the entire time I'd been in his house. "I am not accustomed to having friends; the daroga is one notable exception, and sometimes even he does not count; and I am especially unused to the company of –" Here he at last looked at me, and in spite of myself, I blushed. "The, ah…the gentler sex," he finished awkwardly, and I began to fidget, growing impatient with this unfamiliar and blundering speech, this strange inability to find his words.

"Erik, for God's sake," I finally blurted out, and he had the grace to flinch.

I saw him swallow, saw the hard movement in the impossibly pale length between his mask and jacket. "Christine, might I ask you a very strange question? One might even call it a highly impertinent question."

I was a bit taken aback at this, but I slowly nodded.

Erik rubbed the back of his neck again. "If…and I say _if_ a man were to propose marriage to you…any man, say, the boy you're so fond of hanging about with…how exactly would you like him to do it? What words, what gestures? What declarations?"

I sat in stunned silence for a minute. "I don't understand what you're asking," I said, feeling a cold trickle down my spine at his offhanded yet frighteningly direct mention of Raoul. Was all of this leading up to yet another of his foul moods? Was his demeanor contingent upon my answer? "Why would you ask me such a thing?"

Erik turned his back to me for a moment, leaning his arms against the stone outcropping of the fireplace and facing the flames. After a moment, he spoke again. "I have an acquaintance who wishes to propose marriage to the gir—woman— he desires to be his wife. He does not have any other friends of the female persuasion of whom he might ask advice, and he wished to ascertain an opinion from someone of your sex on how exactly a proposal should be proffered."

"Surely he has other people of whom he could inquire?" I said in confusion, privately thinking that Erik's acquaintance sounded rather cold and altogether unpleasant. "Why should it be up to you to gather such an opinion for him?"

Erik's shoulders heaved, and then shook for a moment. I thought for a moment's alarm that he was weeping, but then I realized to my chagrin that he was silently laughing.

"My acquaintance is merely curious, Christine," he said in quite a normal voice, though perhaps a bit lower than usual. "So I ask you – if a man were to propose marriage to you, how should you like him to do it?"

"Erik, surely you don't imagine I should be at all comfortable answering such a question," I said with slight indignation. "It is, after all, a matter of some intimacy –"

"Christine," he said quietly, and something particularly somber in his tone made my fidgeting go entirely still. "Please answer the question."

All at once, my body turned to ice. _He has no acquaintance,_ I thought with a jolt. _At least not the one to which he is referring. He's talking about himself._

And then I pictured, in my head, Erik sarcastically clapping and saying in his cruelest voice, "Oh, well _done,_ Christine!" and I flushed again, even though no such thing had occurred. I suddenly knew why he had laughed over by the fireplace, and it stung me.

I drew myself up, though he could not see me from where he stood, and I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling a slow burn of righteous indignation. Very well, then. If he wanted his question answered, he should have it answered with the most brutal honesty I could muster. "If a man proposed marriage to me," I said in a clipped tone, "presuming it was a man I wanted, I suppose I should like to have a little warning beforehand. What I mean by this is – well…that he should already have made his regard for me quite clear. Perhaps not as overtly as a declaration of love, you understand, but not in difficult ways to ascertain either – that he cares for me at least a little ought to be shiningly obvious, implicit in his manner and his interactions with me."

"Oh?" Erik asked curiously by the fireplace, and I soldiered onward before I could lose my nerve. "Never should he speak to me in anger unless it is wholly deserved," I said, trying not to let my voice shake. "Never should he threaten me with violence if I do not obey him, _even if he has no intention of carrying out such threats._ "

Erik had become very still, almost unnaturally still in his position by the fire. I forced down my unease and tried to feel satisfaction instead. Let my words wound and shock him, then; let them take him by surprise. He had wounded me with his words before, many times. And I had remained silent about it for far too long. He would hear this. He _must_ hear this.

I continued on as calmly as I could manage, though a curiously raw emotion began to creep into my words. "I suppose that what I'm attempting to say is that I'd care not especially _how_ a man proposed marriage to me, if the intentions behind his suit were justly motivated and…his regard for me had already been made somewhat clear. I should want a man to woo me, Erik, not with trinkets but with _words_ , with deep feeling. Do you want to know what I can't stand? I cannot bear feeling as though I am held in aloof disdain, or that I am thought of as an insipid child. I must be clear – I have feelings of my own, an intellect that may not be as keen as I might like, but it is mine, and I am no weakling, no pampered doll to be cossetted and cared for and yet treated as though I cannot do even the simplest of tasks. It offends me. It _hurts_ me. I am _not_ a child, and I _will not_ stand for it any longer."

I took a long breath after this hurried, impulsive speech. My heart pounded; my blood was up, and I didn't know whether to feel frightened or elated. I was done with pretense, done with this silly game he and I had played for so long. We were equals now, whether he'd wanted it or not—whether _I_ had wanted it or not.


	2. Chapter II - Not Even a Year

Erik was still, so still, though I saw his hand shake at his side. It was not, I imagined, from laughter this time.

All at once, that same hand curled into a light fist – to stop the shaking, I supposed, for it did not appear to be a violent gesture in the slightest. "It appears I have vastly underestimated you, Mlle. Daaé," he said curtly. "I suppose this is the juncture at which I should offer up a bevy of apologies – as I am sure your young friend would, were he in the same humiliating position."

I slumped a little in my seat, feeling that keen sense of shame and uncertainty that I so often did whenever I dared to pit my tongue against Erik's – although never had I taken it so far as this. I abruptly realized that _I_ was feeling the strange urge to apologize to _him_ , and I fought it back with an iron will, forcing down the sudden surge of bile in my throat.

No. He would intimidate me no longer. I would not allow it. I supposed I ought to feel some sense of pride, for he _had,_ in his way, offered me some half-hearted compliment ( _vastly underestimated,_ indeed); perhaps I ought to take him up on his offer of apology, although I was not entirely sure whether he had actually meant it.

"I would accept a _sincere_ apology," I said at last, as smoothly as I could manage while still attempting to sound somewhat amiable. I held my tongue then, waiting, nervously poised to wonder what his next words would be.

I saw his broad back straighten, saw his shoulders lift and descend, heard the somewhat muffled sigh from behind the mask. "Then I apologize, Christine – sincerely, I promise you that, though I have never been a man of many apologies, as you no doubt have noted in the past. You've caught me at a great disadvantage, it seems, for although I am indeed attempting to offer up a rather fumbling proposal, I am, as you can see, entirely unprepared to offer up the sort of suit you so eloquently described." He turned to face me for a moment, and then quickly turned back.

He didn't speak for a long while after that, and suddenly my tongue moved with a will of its own; I could only watch, vaguely horrified, as though I were a spectator in the arena of my own conversation.

"What _happened,_ Erik?" I heard myself asking, blurting the words out like a lost traveler blindly groping ahead in the dark. "Why have you become so cold? I don't understand you. I never have, really, but I understand you even less of late. You frighten me sometimes, Erik, and other times you treat me as though I were some sort of wind-up toy that can perform at your whim. And yet I know you can be kind, that you _can_ take my feelings into account, and given that, this seems utterly absurd even for you! You've been speaking of marriage as though it were some kind of unfeeling _business_ transaction –"

"And is it not, at that?" he suddenly rejoined, some fervor returning to his voice, although he still did not turn back to look at me again. "A man promises to take care of a woman – and she agrees to be taken care of and be his helpmeet, in exchange. But understand this, Christine, for I will speak it no more plainly if I can manage it – unlike most men who enter into this sort of agreement, I would _not_ be expecting to take any liberties in return for your taking my name. Your company is all I ask – _nothing more_. Do you understand?"

It was as though all the breath had left my lungs. Cold and clinical did not begin to describe this; somehow, hearing what he had just said was even worse than what I might have otherwise expected. No proposal of love or affection, this; he was asking me for some sort of cynical marriage of convenience, no doubt to keep me under his thumb just enough so that I should not be "tempted" by other pursuits, and should only focus on my career. I was ashamed to admit that only a few months ago, before the slow blossom of innocent romance with Raoul had begun to show me what was possible, what kind of happiness could be achieved with someone for whom I truly cared, I might have actually considered such an agreement.

"No," I spat out. "I don't understand at all. You still haven't told me _why_ you're asking me this – no, strike that, you haven't actually _asked_ anything of me yet. You've hinted, hemmed and hawed, very nearly _demanded_ almost, but you haven't _asked._ You astound me!" I had never been this sharp or direct with a man before. The suddenness of it, the entirely unladylike scope of the anger welling up in me at this nonsensical farce, astounded me almost more than Erik's words themselves.

There was silence between us for a long moment as I struggled not to say something in anger that I should regret – though I could not at present imagine how either of us should proceed from here even faintly hoping to salvage the wreck and ruin of our already tenuous musical partnership. Erik turned to face me again at last, and this time he did not turn away.

"Christine, I'm going about this all wrong, I can see that, I know it, but I can't seem to stop. You haven't the faintest idea of how desperately I am attempting to gain control over my own words, but this whole thing is making me feel sick. I've never known how to talk to women, and it hasn't gotten any better with age. Do you know how it is to suddenly feel your command over language slip away from you as though it had never been? To suddenly feel inexplicably weak and helpless in the face of someone who is so much physically smaller than yourself? This is how I feel now; it's how I've felt in the company of women many times, but never so often as I have felt in _your_ company specifically. And do you know why that is, Christine?"

I swallowed. "I – no," I said, much more bravely (and less truthfully) than I felt. _Oh, Erik,_ I thought, my mind a tumult of anger and pity and fear _._ I didn't know what to say to this. I didn't know how to react or how to feel.

I could see, in the firelight, Erik's eyes closing behind his mask for a moment. "I love you, you little fool," he breathed. "I love you so much that I think I'll be ill of it, so much that my heart aches with it as though it were bound by a heavy stone. I can't bear it, Christine. At times I've thought perhaps I could banish it away by sheer force of will – and I'll tell you plainly, Christine, that hasn't worked for a moment – and at other times I've thought, wildly enough, that I have some sort of slender, barely tenable chance of earning your love in return. But I'm horrible, I know I'm horrible, I can't get away from that. The monster in the mirror is always there, Christine – he always will be, as long as I'm alive, and I –" He abruptly ceased speaking for a moment. I was stock still in my seat, frozen to the spot in a mixture of horror and wonder. Never in my darkest dreams had I imagined him saying these things to me, not like this, not ever. It was becoming rather difficult to breathe.

I wanted to say something, anything, and my mouth opened wordlessly as my mind blankly searched for a response.

"Why _now?_ " I finally croaked out. "Why have you only told me this now?"

Erik clutched at the back of his neck with one hand, placed both hands over his mask for a moment, then began to gesticulate wildly. "Because I didn't wish to ruin _this_ , Christine! Our lessons, our conversations, the meals you sometimes take while you're in my house, the times you sleep in the Louis-Philippe room without a care in the world. You stay here sometimes out of sheer convenience but I had – have – a sharp inkling that whatever semblance of personal propriety could possibly be salvaged from a situation in which you spend the night in a man's home should be dashed utterly to ruins upon the revelation that the man loves you, and that his love is not entirely that of a father or a teacher or taskmaster, or even entirely that of a friend."

I wanted to ask him, if he loved me in such a way, why he had insisted that he would make no _demands_ of me in marriage. It was difficult for me to fathom, if his passion for me burned as brightly as he was seeming to insinuate, that he did not desire me or the chance to fulfill certain husbandly rights upon a union. None of this made any sense to me, and it was making my head ache. But I could not bring myself to be so forward in my questions – and I thought I knew, deep in my gut, why he had said such a thing. It was to calm me, to make me less hesitant – to lull me into a sense of security. _Marry me, and have all of the benefits with none of the more unsettling consequences._ But even if I had seriously begun to entertain his suit for a moment, I should have just as seriously doubted such a claim.

He was regarding me, as though he were attempting to read my thoughts on my face, and I flushed for a moment, wondering if he really could garner the nature of my innermost ponderings simply by gazing intently upon my expression.

"Erik, I might as well tell you I haven't the slightest idea of what to say," I said helplessly. "What if I say no? Would you be angry and never see or speak to me again? And what if I say _yes?_ My God, I can't even imagine being subject to your whims all the time, and as your _wife_ at that – bad enough I'm subject to them once or twice a week as your student." The color really came up in my face then; I'd said too much, been far too abrupt. This was not how women spoke to men, but I could not defer to him. I could _not._

To my surprise, he didn't appear to be the least bit angry about my outburst. "I don't know what to say to convince you," he said, throwing one hand up in the air, a mildly defeated gesture. "I could tell you I'd treat you as well as I can, and that would be the truth. I could also tell you I'd speak gently all the time, but you know as well as I do that I can't promise that."

I pinched my mouth shut for a moment, but in spite of all my years of training, my temper suddenly got the better of me. I was filled with a sudden, blind fury. "What on earth _could_ make me want to accept such an offer?" I suddenly blurted, nearly shouting. "I don't understand you – you won't make me any promises of happiness and yet you ask me to bind myself irrevocably to you for _years and years!_ This is sheer madness, Erik! Why on _earth_ do you suppose I'd—"

"I'm dying," he said suddenly, very quietly, and the breath sucked itself out of my lungs so quickly it was as though I'd been suffocated. The room turned cold as ice; my vision swam.

"What? No," I whispered at last. "You're lying to me. This is a trick."

"It's no trick, I can assure you," he said in a very low voice, tinged with a deep, abiding sorrow that made my very bones hurt. "Six months, give or take, would be my best guess. But then again, I am no doctor. Christine, do you understand why I am asking you this now? I don't want to die alone. I want you, I want your company, your sweet voice speaking to me daily before I go. I don't want anything else. No, I take that back – I want to leave everything to you, all of my possessions, all of my money, all of my music, save that which I decide to burn before I die. You'd be free after I'm gone, free and unimaginably wealthy for an unattached woman, able to go anywhere in the world, able to give yourself in true marriage without regret to anyone you wished, on your terms. You talked of being bound to me for years and years – would that such a thing were possible, but this is far better for you, is it not? Not even a year, and you would not be sullied when it was done."

I squeezed my eyes shut; my blood felt like ice, but my tears were hot, so hot they felt as though they'd burn my cheeks with their salty trails. "I can't breathe, Erik," I gasped suddenly, "oh god, help me," and I retched, ruining the arm of his fine high-backed chair as well as a spot on the floor.

He was at my side within seconds, offering me a handkerchief to mop at my face. "I'm sorry," he breathed, "I'm so sorry, oh, Christine, I'm sorry," and he swiftly departed the drawing-room, coming back within a minute or so with a few cloths that I assumed were for cleaning up the sour contents of my stomach on his chair and carpet. "Let me," I tried to say, but he waved me off and went to work, not looking at me.

"Erik," I said at last, one hand to my stomach, "I didn't mean to ruin your chair." I wanted to say more, desperately wanted to, but my mind was a hollow wasteland at the moment and I didn't trust myself to try to say anything further.

"Despite the fact that I tend to surround myself with beautiful things," he said evenly, and I felt a flush come up in my cheeks as he spoke, "the truth of the matter is that there is only one thing of beauty in my home for which I truly care, and I can tell you plainly that it is not this piece of furniture." He got up, still not looking at me. "Are you all right, Christine?"

"I…I don't know," I said. "I don't feel sick anymore, exactly, but…"

"Forgive me," he said, his shoulders slumping, and I knew he meant it this time. "I should never have burdened you with any of this. I'm a foolish old man, and it galls me to admit this after quite happily living most of my life alone and free, but it _has_ been a lonely life, and that loneliness has grown ever sharper with age. It has made me say and do things that I…highly regret."

I wondered if this was the closest thing to an apology I was ever going to receive for his deceit and his sometime harshness; it was _something_ , at least, although it didn't seem nearly enough. But I pitied him; that much was true. I had _always_ pitied him, but I refused to let that pity spur me to do something so rash and impulsive as marry a dying man whom I did not love.

No – no, I was forced to admit that was not entirely true. I _did_ feel some affection for Erik; I certainly cared for him, but it was not in the way of husbands and wives. He was a force to be reckoned with in my life, the reason my voice had grown magnificent wings and taken flight, and the truth was, I already felt bound to him in a way that I had never been able to sever or explain. It was almost as though he were a part of me now – a part of me that I feared, sometimes almost abhorred, but which drew me back to him time and time again with an inexorable magnetism. His voice, his hands, his presence and mannerisms, his unimaginable genius and vast talents – there was _something_ about the man which had always pulled me to him like a moth to a flame, and I began to wonder if perhaps, after all, it would not be a fitting end to our tumultuous relationship to be the keeper of that flame until it went out. Six months, and as platonic as I should wish… _if_ he was telling the truth. But I had rather begun to think that he was.

Oh, this was surely a kind of hell on earth to feel so torn in half. I could not answer him now, either way. I had to have time to think. I put a hand to my forehead. "Erik, can I trouble you for a glass of water, please?" I asked in a whisper, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him nod.

He fetched one for me, and I drank deeply, trying to calm my hammering heart.

"I cannot give you an answer," I said. "Not now. Will you give me time, at least? I don't know what to say to you. I don't know what to do."

"Of course I'll give you time," he said, sounding almost astonished that I had felt it necessary to ask. "Although I must say that it isn't really mine to give, is it? It's already yours – you are very much your own woman, Christine," and I thought suddenly, with a touch of something like amusement, that this was one of the most shockingly considerate things he'd ever said.

"No huffing about 'feminine foolishness?'" I asked in a lightly sardonic, somewhat cautious tone. "No complaints of women's 'dashed inability' to make up their minds? My god, you really are serious," and then I ceased being mildly amused and suddenly felt very somber indeed.

He said nothing; he regarded me for a moment, and then he said, "Not to be indelicate, but you mussed your dress when you felt ill; perhaps you should change before we go back. I'll get my coat."

I rose uncertainly, feeling very self-conscious. He stood still with his back to me, no doubt meaning to get his coat but for some reason hovering in place, his hands trembling almost imperceptibly at his sides. "Do you feel better?" he asked without turning.

"A little," I replied, "although…"

"Although what?" His voice was soft.

I bit my lip. "Well," I admitted, feeling a growing knot of disquiet in my gut, "now that I've become better apprised of your condition, I'm worried. About you."

There was a long, still pause. Erik sighed. "I…appreciate your concern. Christine, there are a great many things I wish to say," he said, "so many things…and oh, how I wish I knew how to say them."

 _Then say them_ , I thought, feeling a sense of rising fury mixed with a strange ache. _Stop worrying about how it will sound; speak to me, please!_ Perhaps I was a hypocrite, for the words in my own head never left my mouth; they stilled in my throat, and all I could manage was, "Pardon me while I go change."


	3. Chapter III - If I Am Free

When I had put on fresh clothes and come back out to meet Erik, I was struck once more by the change in his demeanor. He was so much more meek than I was accustomed, none of the usual confidence or natural assumption of control that generally marked his manner when I was in his house. I felt that this was genuine, not forced for my benefit, but still it unsettled me. It was a marked change in our ordinary dynamic, and while it was mildly gratifying in a way, it was also throwing me off balance.

We spent the journey back to the upper floors in relative silence; every so often his arm would accidentally brush against mine, and my breath would catch in surprise and – to my absolute consternation – a sharp flicker of something else. I refused to outright name it desire, but I was forced to begin to admit that perhaps it _was_ something along those lines. Preposterous, yes, but the altogether unexpected declaration of his love had awoken something deeply hidden in me, some strange longing that had no voice. Perhaps that was because I would give it none; the idea of desiring Erik seemed so utterly beyond the pale of logic that it made my gut clench in confusion and distaste.

I told myself it was merely that old wish for his approval being brought to life in a slightly different way; I was perhaps confusing it with physical desire, when really it was merely the desire to know my value in his eyes, to hear him say I was of worth. Why I had always wanted this was unclear to me; but I thought perhaps it was because he was a person of some importance and authority in my life, and therefore his opinion of me held a significant weight; it _mattered_. I hated that it was so, but it seemed I could not escape his influence – and now I was actually considering becoming his _wife_ , of all things, even if it was only in nothing more than name. Did his approval matter _that_ much to me, and did I pity him that much, or was it something else entirely which was inspiring my startling change of mind?

"You seem a hundred leagues away," Erik said, and I suddenly realized that while I had been so lost in thought, we had reached the mirror, the hidden door to my dressing-room. I didn't look at him. "Like you, I have a great deal on my mind," I said quietly.

"Christine," he said, and his voice trembled. I glanced at him then, and my breath caught in my throat as he took my hand in shaking fingers and swiftly pressed it to his chest. "This," he said, as I stared at him open-mouthed, unable to move a single muscle, "this is my heart. It belongs to you utterly. I have been a fool to hide it from you, but here it lies – and it is yours. I think – I _believe_ – I can be a better man, if you will let me try."

My own heart pounded wildly, the blood thundering in my ears, my mouth still gaping like a fish as my blank mind searched desperately for something to say in return.

" _I will never lie to you again,_ " he said with the deepest feeling I thought I had ever heard him express, and then suddenly a trail of hot tears found their way down my face and I tried my level best not to weep like a child.

How it happened, I wasn't certain, but all of a sudden I had hurled myself forward and found myself sobbing into his coat, my face buried and my hands curled into fists, with his hands hovering about my head, as though he was desperately uncertain whether or not to touch me any further. At last one of his hands tangled itself into my hair, the other gently gripping my own hand and holding it once more to his heart. " _I don't want you to die,_ " I said fiercely through my tears, a bubble of unimaginable pain rising to the surface of my soul and bursting with fiery-hot misery.

"Oh, Christine," he said, his voice a soft breath, filled with sadness and wonder. "Christine."

"Please don't die," I said, sounding – in spite of my best efforts – very much like a child. "Please."

"Christine." His voice ached. "I don't know if – you see, this has been coming, creeping up upon me for a very long time, and I –"

"Maybe I can make you well," I said, knowing how impossibly stupid I sounded even as I said it but unable to stop myself. "Maybe I can – find something to –"

"My dear," he said, so gently it made me weep even more, "my darling girl. It is wonderful of you to offer to look for some miracle cure, but I don't suppose anything could possibly halt Death's progress at this juncture. I have been ill for a very long time, as you well know. I have cheated him – Death – many times before. This is simply nature catching up to me at last."

"No," I said stubbornly, " _no._ " He held me for a while longer yet, and then I felt embarrassed, covered with my own tears, tasting their salt and feeling their wetness all over his coat. I drew back, suddenly feeling very self-conscious and horrified at my own lack of propriety. He let go of my hair and my hand at once.

"I…I'll see you again soon," I said. "Won't I?" I didn't want this loss of control; I had liked feeling as though I were on even footing with him, but the suddenly overwhelming prospect of his death had overcome me to the point where I felt myself swiftly slipping back into the role of submissive student, his obedient, approval-seeking little protégée.

One of his hands came up as if to touch me again, but then fell back to his side, as if he'd thought better of it. "If you wish," he said, his voice still tinged with soft threads of uncertainty and something like surprise. I imagined I'd caught him quite off-guard with my little outburst. Never had I touched him in such a manner before; I had hardly ever touched him at all, and although I felt mildly ashamed of my sudden breach of protocol, I also felt…lighter. It was as though a thick wall had been broken between us, and I was seeing him differently for the first time. Did he see me differently, too, or did he see the shrinking little songbird he always had?

"I need time," I said, "I do…although…" _I am worried that there isn't any time._ The words remained unspoken on my lips, although it seemed that he took my meaning all the same. He bowed his head slightly. "Christine, I doubt I'll be dead by tomorrow," he said sardonically, and my mouth twisted. "It isn't funny," I said. "Don't try to make it funny, Erik. I won't laugh. Not about this."

"Oh, my dear," he said. "You'll have to excuse me. Dark humor has been a staple in my life for as long as I can remember. It has helped me confront a great many things that would otherwise be unbearable to contemplate."

My lips were still pursed. "I…I understand," I said, although I wasn't sure I did.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You will tell me what you decide, won't you, Christine? Even if…even if the answer is no?"

"Of course I'll tell you," I said, a bit too quickly. Oh, my head was spinning. My stomach gave another uncomfortable lurch. I couldn't think about it now. I would be sick if I did.

"Take all the time you need," he said, "and don't worry about me. I'll be all right, for the foreseeable near future."

I felt a pricking behind my eyelids again, and I hurriedly turned away. "Yes, Erik." There was the obedient protégée again. Would I ever shed her skin?

* * *

I received a written invitation from Raoul that very night to go to dinner; I accepted with a heavy heart, dreadfully uncertain of what the future held. I wondered if Erik knew about my plans that evening, and thought that he probably did; not much ever escaped his notice.

Raoul never seemed to care that he and I had no chaperone; he was quite well-ensconced in high society, after all, and I was an opera girl and his very old and dear friend, to boot; many of the annoyingly arbitrary little proprieties of idle courtship never seemed to apply to us. I had no doubt that many people thought that I was Raoul's mistress; it made me angry to hear the whispers of the ballet rats and the stage-hands in corners at times, chittering about the "nature" of our relationship, though I had certainly never done anything of which I knew to encourage such wild fancy. To attempt to confront such rumors head-on was folly, however, at least as long as Raoul and I continued to associate in any way. Icy diplomacy at the opera was ever a key player; I pretended I knew nothing of the gossip, for to openly attempt to discourage it would simply paint me in their eyes as an even more guilty party than they had previously suspected. And they, for their part, carried on with their rumors in hushed tones, acting as though I could not hear them and hoping I would. Nothing pleased the girls of the opera more than a victim of gossip rising to their bait; insofar, I had sorely disappointed them.

I looked about me at the intimate little restaurant Raoul had chosen this evening; his private booth was humbler by far than one might have suspected a member of the nobility to keep. But that was Raoul, through and through; his family was made of money, and yet he kept his feet planted firmly on the ground – or on deck, one might say. Perhaps it was his navy service which had kept him humble; perhaps it was simply his kind and unassuming nature from the start.

"You're quiet tonight, Lotte," said Raoul, "ever so much more quiet than usual," and I looked up at him with a start. "Oh!" I said, "forgive me. I was simply going over my aria in my head – you know the one I've been working on, from _Faust?_ "

He looked at me quizzically. "You mean Siebel's song, _Faites-lui mes aveux_?" he said. "I know it, of course. But you've practiced that a hundred times. Surely you know it back to front by now?"

"Oh, Raoul, you know me, I'm always practicing, even in silence. It must be perfect." I sipped my glass of chardonnay a little too hurriedly, and held my hand to my mouth to cover up a small cough.

"Christine, I must tell you something – something of great importance," he said very seriously and somberly, and my mind shuddered to a halt. It could not be about Erik, surely. I had told him of Erik only briefly, months ago – discussed him as my strict and strident teacher, nothing more. I had mentioned he was a very private person (which was true enough, even though it was putting it mildly), but I'd said nothing of his face, or how he dwelt in the cellars, or – especially – how I would sometimes keep prolonged company in his home, sometimes even over-night. Nothing remotely untoward had ever happened, of course, but I knew Raoul would not understand. _I_ hardly understood it, after all.

"What is that, dear?" I asked, my face suddenly flushing as I imagined what Erik's reaction might be to me calling Raoul by such a familiar term. Why should I care what Erik thought of such things? Even he had said I was my own woman, that I deserved time to make up my mind, even though I was reminded sharply that there was precious little of such time to be getting on with. But no – guilt had no place here, not now, not in this moment. I would deal with that question to-morrow, or perhaps even the day after that. I did not want that sorrowful burden – yes or no? _You will tell me, won't you, Christine? Even if the answer is no?_ – to hover over me like a dark shroud to-night.

"I've accepted a commission," he said. "I'm going to the North Pole – it is to be very soon, within a fortnight. The expedition itself is to last a year, maybe two. I will of course write whenever I am able – but I don't think it will be very feasible, at least not often. Lotte, are you all right? You look sick."

I held my hand to one cheek, trying to cool the sudden flare of dizzy heat that had sprung up in my face. "A year?" I asked, although I had heard him just fine. "Maybe two, you say?"

"Yes," he said with growing concern. "I…oh, lord, how do I put this. I…I know it wouldn't be remotely fair to ask you to wait for me, and I won't. I can't ask that of you. But…well… _if_ you happen to be free when I return…do you suppose…" He nervously straightened his jacket. "Well…do you suppose, perhaps…we could join our lives and give our freedom to each other?" His face abruptly turned a shade of red. "That wasn't meant to sound impertinent. It was meant to sound clever. I didn't mean…well, I suppose there is that in marriage, after all, but…heaven help me."

My breath caught in my throat; I wanted to laugh, but didn't dare. I clasped his hands suddenly, not caring who saw. "Oh, Raoul," I said. "Dear boy. Dear, dear Raoul." Was _this_ meant to be my path, then? Was a narrow road being forged for me in spite of any of my objections? For it seemed now that everything was falling – like oddly shaped domino pieces – into place. Raoul would be gone, and wished to marry me when he came back – and if everything Erik surmised about his own health was correct, I could potentially accept Erik's proposal and yet still be free, a widow, upon Raoul's return.

But was that what I wanted? Was _any_ of this what I wanted? It seemed cheap, suddenly – cheap and ugly and strange, and I stared blankly out of the little window to my left. My own woman, Erik had said. But was I, in truth? I was being buffeted about by the will and whims of two men, one sweet and considerate and very much likely to live for many more years, and one tempestuous and unpredictable who might not live out the year at hand.

Oh, such a state of confused vexation I had found myself in! It was enough to make me want to pack up this very night and travel straight back to Sweden, a penniless pauper but a free one, unfettered by obligation and responsibility and weighty decisions which held the happiness of myself and others in the balance.

Erik had said he'd leave his fortune to me – I'd eventually be a wealthy, unattached widow if I took his name. But I didn't want his money, in truth. I wanted him to be alive, and I didn't want to marry him and yet I did, and I could not begin to fathom the reason for the latter. And Raoul – sweet, tender Raoul. What a good husband he might make, though there was the question of his family's view of my suitability. A union might – in fact, almost certainly would – be opposed; Raoul might lose his inheritance if he were to wed me against his family's wishes. In that event, if I did actually have Erik's money, it might prove rather useful.

Oh, what _was_ all of this folly? I was plotting out aloofly practical scenarios in my head while Erik all the while presumably grew closer to his end, and Raoul wanted reassurances from me, no doubt – look at him, the poor boy; he was as nervous as a sinner in church, though it was hard for me to imagine him having to do penance for much of anything. He seemed to me to be such an unimaginably pure soul, untouched by greed or vice.

I clasped his hands, making a decision then and there in the moment. "If I am free," I said quietly, "the answer will be yes."

He pressed a swift kiss to the backs of my hands, his moustache tickling my knuckles. "Thank you, Christine," he said. "Thank you."

I wanted so badly to tell him then. _My teacher has asked me to marry him. It is to be a marriage of convenience; he is dying, and I will more than likely be free when you return. I have not decided yet, but I think I may accept._ But I could not bring myself to burden him with such a thing, after giving him such quiet happiness; I could not dull the light in his eyes, could not suffer his concern. I was sure he would think I was being taken advantage of; perhaps I was. The words bubbled up in my throat, but they died, and I cursed myself silently for a coward.

The evening ended all too quickly, and when I had returned to my flat, I sat in near-darkness but for the flickering light of a dying oil lamp for some minutes, pondering and praying and feeling as though I were the most duplicitous girl in the world.


	4. Chapter IV - Even a Little

Morning dawned and I was at the opera as early as I could manage, attempting to avoid suspicion by telling anyone who asked that I was there to practice on my own before rehearsals.

I should have liked to leave a note for Erik in Box 5, but that particular box was locked these days unless there was a performance or it was being cleaned, and I had no wish to spark even more gossip by appealing to Mme. Giry, the box-keeper, to let me in.

And so I left a note on my dressing-room table, unsure as to whether Erik would even see it before rehearsals were done.

Rehearsal for _Faust_ went slowly and made my head ache; the room seemed to buzz and in spite of the fact that I kept my wits about me enough to never falter in my delivery, I felt increasingly dizzy. At length I asked to be excused early for my health, and M. Gabriel deferred to me, although I heard Carlotta muttering to her friends about "simpering divas and their melancholies." _She should talk,_ I thought with a little flash of anger, but my head swam too much to make a conscious retort, and I had no wish to bring her wrath down upon me for all that.

When I finally reached my dressing-room again, I locked the door and slumped into my chair. The note on the table was gone; I could only hope that it had actually been Erik who had found it, although I generally kept my dressing-room locked at all times when I was not there.

"I confess, I didn't expect you to want to see me again so soon." His voice sounded all around me, and I glowered at the mirror.

"My note said when I was done with rehearsal; rehearsal isn't due to be finished for another hour-and-a-half."

"Ah, but you yourself _are_ by definition finished with rehearsal now, are you not?"

I rolled my eyes and fiddled with my hair-brush. An ordinary woman might have asked indignantly if he had been spying, but it was _Erik;_ such a question would have been highly redundant. I already knew he had been spying.

"I can come back if you'd like," his voice said smoothly, and I shot a glance at the mirror again.

"No, it's all right," I sighed. "But I'm too tired to go down just now. You might as well come in." I was a little shocked at my boldness, but after all, my dressing-room was not so very different from his home, was it? It _seemed_ somehow different, somehow more starkly intimate, but I saw no reason why it should. The only real difference was that here, we might be overheard – although with everyone at rehearsal and the maids working on the grand stairs rather than the halls at the moment, I didn't see that being an overt risk either.

Slowly, slowly the mirror swung open, and there he stood. There seemed a peculiar shyness to him now, a hesitance that I had not truly noticed the last time I had seen him.

I had only seen his face on two occasions; the rest of our acquaintance had been spent with him entirely masked, and as a result I had become rather unconsciously adept at reading his body language, rather than his facial expressions as I might do with any other person. That alone was a sobering thought indeed, realizing with a start just how well I had come to know the unspoken language of his hands and elbows, his hips and knees and ankles, the tilt of his head. Every positioning and movement of his limbs told a story, every stance and lean and shrug, every moment of stillness or sudden energy.

It seemed wrong to have such knowledge – there again was an uncomfortable intimacy, an unspoken bond that I did not and might never share in quite the same manner with anyone else. I wondered with a start if perhaps he knew me too, knew me and the language of my body even better than I knew his, for he could see my face and had double the advantage.

"May I sit?" he asked, and I gestured wordlessly to an extra chair, suddenly feeling very awkward. He sat uncomfortably with his legs drawn up beneath it rather than stretched out in front of him as was his usual custom in his home, and I thought it was probably a mark of how unfamiliar this was for him – for both of us. He swiveled his head ever so slightly toward the door. "Locked," I said, and he nodded, a little of the tension seeming to leave him.

There was silence between us for the better part of a minute; at length I cleared my throat. "Erik, I – " but at the same time he began, "Christine – " and all of a sudden we ceased speaking and stared at each other for a moment before I nervously laughed, and he relaxed a little more.

"You were not up to your usual standard to-day," he said, but not unkindly. "And you retired from rehearsal early. Are you ill?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "I'm not ill. Merely…overwhelmed."

"Ah," he said gently. "I apologize."

"It isn't only you," I said without meaning to, and then my face blanched and I shook my head again. "It isn't…I mean…it doesn't matter. The other things."

Erik leaned forward a little in his chair, and it creaked beneath his movement. I became very uncomfortable under the weight of his gaze. " _What_ other things?" he asked pointedly, with all the air of a stern father, and my lips thinned. "Erik," I said, determined to keep my footing, "you _do not need to know everything_ ," and I saw a tightening in his shoulders, a clenching of his hands where they had been loosely laced together. I tensed, expecting a battle, but he straightened, took a breath, and there was an impossibly long moment of silence before he slowly exhaled.

"No," he said, and it seemed to be taking him a very great effort to say this, "I suppose not."

I closed my eyes. There were more layers to this man than I had ever dreamed; I had been dreading the seeming inevitability of his prodding and poking upon my foolishly inadvertent revelation, had expected him to _demand_ the way he always did, but he had surprised me. I didn't suppose for a moment that this would be a regular occurrence, but I was touched that he was at least trying not to be quite so overbearing. It seemed he had taken at least some of my words to heart yesterday.

"And you?" I asked gingerly. "Are you…are you quite all right? To-day, at least, I mean."

"As well as can be expected under the circumstances of my health," he replied calmly. "Yes. I'm fine to-day. Upon my word, you are quite the mother-hen of late, aren't you, Christine?"

 _What do you expect?_ I thought furiously. _You told me only yesterday you may not live to see the summer!_ Instead, I said, coolly, "If it bothers you for me to inquire about your welfare – or your health – I shan't do it."

"It isn't…" He sighed again, and rubbed his neck as he had yesterday. "It isn't that, Christine. It isn't that I don't appreciate…your concern. In fact, I do. It's only that I've never been fussed over in _any_ capacity, even as a child, and…well…it is what I might genuinely term a new experience."

 _Poor Erik,_ I thought, and then quickly dismissed that thought. He did not want my pity; he had made that abundantly clear on more than one occasion.

"I should tell you," he said abruptly, "that if… _if_ you decide in the…in the affirmative, you will not have to worry about seeing to my medical needs, even – and especially – when I begin to decline. The daroga and I have a bit of a system worked out. He is a capable nurse-maid when it suits him." He chuckled a bit at this, but I found nothing amusing about the situation at all. "And I?" I asked. "What would I be meant to do? Sit in the drawing-room sipping tea while you languish? Erik, I realize you are attempting to make this sound less burdensome for me, but _I want to be of use._ I want to help. I'm sure I should prove a perfectly capable nurse-maid myself, if the occasion called for it." A touch of sarcasm laced my tone, and I wondered at it. Erik was rubbing off on me, it seemed.

Erik was very still for a moment. "You speak as though your mind were already made up," he said, in a voice that seemed very cautious. It was as though he were expecting a blow at any moment to replace his hope, and I let out a breath as I contemplated what next to say.

"Not…entirely," I said, which was the truth. Erik gave a curt little nod. "Christine…I might as well speak plainly. Looking after me in what could be termed a medical capacity would be no pretty task, most especially when I reach my very last days, or hours. I do not wish you to feel obligated in any way to tend to me during those times, particularly…" He inhaled, and fidgeted. "I have seen what happens when an ill person is nearing death," he said, his voice shaking. "I have no doubt it will eventually happen to me as well. The utter lack of dignity the body possesses at such a time is…well, fascinating, in a sense, but also highly unsettling. I cannot imagine subjecting you to such a vulgar process."

I was slightly repulsed, but also horridly intrigued. "When you say 'lack of dignity,' what exactly do you mean?" I asked carefully.

He looked me dead in the eye. "That insatiable curiosity is going to get you into trouble someday, Christine." There was a spark of warning in his tone, but it was light, as though he were mildly impressed that I was asking him these questions.

"I don't care," I said flatly.

He sighed. "Very well. I will put it as plainly as I think prudent." He shifted in his seat. "Bodily functions can become almost entirely involuntary," he said, with a cold calm that belied something else beneath. "Soiled sheets and clothing are extremely commonplace. I cannot begin to describe to you the smell. The smell of not only bodily waste, but of approaching death itself. The smell of illness, of decline. It is…" He paused. "It is nightmarishly unpleasant, and _that_ is putting it ever so mildly."

I became aware that my fingers were gripping the arms of my chair so tightly that my knuckles had gone white. I let go, but not before he heard my intake of breath and saw the expression that was no doubt on my face. He made a soft noise and turned his head away to lean it on his hand.

"It is not exactly suitable for a young woman to witness," he said quietly. "Particularly one as tender as yourself."

I let out a long breath I didn't know I had been holding. "Then why ask me to be your wife?" I inquired in a voice that I thought sounded mostly calm. "Don't wives take care of husbands just as husbands take care of wives?"

"You are a stubborn little fool, aren't you?" he asked rather vehemently. "I'm not asking so that you can nurse me. I'm asking so that I can be sure _you_ will be financially secure when I'm gone, and…and so that I shan't only have the daroga and myself for company in my last months. I'm selfish, but not as selfish as all that, I don't suppose. I won't beg for your love, and I won't even beg for your kindness. I know I don't deserve it. You already know how I feel about you, Christine. I believe I made that plain yesterday."

 _If you care so much about my financial security, why is it contingent upon becoming your wife?_ I thought, but didn't dare voice it aloud. I sighed and massaged the bridge of my nose with two fingers, feeling my head begin to ache again. I had so many more questions for him. "Erik…you've talked of my freedom after…but what about during? How exactly would my days be spent when I'm not rehearsing?" I kept imagining the absolute dread and horrible monotony of being in his home _all the time_ , helplessly waiting for him to grow sicker, spending my days milling uselessly about in my room or crying as the daroga tended to him behind a closed door. It was an awful thought; it made my stomach tighten and the blood drain from my face.

"I hadn't entirely thought it through…Christine, what are you thinking about?" he asked with some concern. "Are you sure you're not ill? Should I –"

"No," I said. "I'm not ill. I already told you I'm not." A thought occurred to me. "What if we went away?" I suddenly asked. "Just for a few months…would you be able to travel?"

He stared at me and tilted his head just a little. "Away?" he asked slowly. "Where?"

"Anywhere," I said in a rush. "Everywhere. There are so many places to visit, so many things to see. And you could show me. You could show me where you've been, tell me stories. Wouldn't that be better than staying here, just…waiting?"

His hands sat unmoving in his lap, loosely folded. He leaned back. "Yes," he said, his voice as careful as a rabbit avoiding the snare. "Yes, I suppose it would, at that." He shifted his weight, uncrossed one leg and crossed the other. "What about your boy?" he asked in a tone that seemed to be attempting calm flippancy but was layered with something far less charitable. He did not look at me, instead appearing to find the wallpaper most interesting. "Won't he object to your disappearing for such a protracted period of time?"

I pursed my lips. "Raoul is going away, too," I said. "To the North Pole. For a year, maybe two."

Erik cracked the knuckles of one hand, still looking at the wallpaper. "Ah," he said quietly, almost dangerously. " _That_ explains a great many things."

My temper flared. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean by that _,_ " I retorted, "but there's no need to be an ass."

"Tell me," he said, "does he actually intend to wed you at some juncture, or are you simply a plaything to him? A pleasant diversion from his duties?"

I rose from my seat, my scalp tingling with a hot wash of anger. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner," I spat. "How _dare_ you. Raoul has been kinder and more gentlemanly than you have _ever_ attempted. I don't know why I'm even conversing with you. I don't know why I ever remotely considered this. I should leave you to rot. You deserve it."

"Fine," he said with just as much vehemence, and when he too rose from his chair, I visibly flinched. "Oh, spare me your feminine theatrics," he said venomously at this. "Have I ever physically harmed you?"

"Not _exactly_ ," I said, "although I imagine you'd be capable of anything in a rage. Besides, there was…" I didn't say it aloud, but I remembered it. His mask lying on the floor where I had dropped it in shock, his hands gripping my wrists. I had thought he was going to kill me. I had been absolutely sure I was going to die.

The anger suddenly seemed to leave him; his towering form seemed to shrink in on itself a little. "I may not be an ordinary man," he said, "but I do have some measure of pride. The thought of that boy pricks at my pride with a thousand sharp-pointed pins."

I rolled my eyes. "He's leaving, I tell you," I said. "And for quite some time, at that."

"But that's exactly it, Christine," he said, dropping back into his chair. "Exactly. Why do I have the overwhelming feeling that the only reason you're even considering this is because he is going away?"

I understood better now what he was getting at. "I was already considering it," I informed him sharply. "The revelation that he was going to the North Pole simply made the choice easier to make."

"But then you're not really choosing _me,_ " he said, sounding as sullen as a child, "you're simply choosing an alternative to pining for him alone until he returns."

I narrowed my eyes at him, my tongue moving with a will of its own again. "One," I said, "I thought you had made it quite clear that this was to be a marriage of convenience. You never asked me to choose _you, specifically_ ; you asked me to choose platonic companionship and financial security. Not that it matters to me very much – the money – although it would certainly help me. I want to make it quite clear that I wouldn't have been agreeing for the money; I would have been agreeing because I do actually care for you to _some_ degree, but my _point_ is that you didn't ask me to marry you because of that. Two, I got along quite capably without Raoul for years and years; I can get along quite capably without him for another year or two, or longer. The fact that you think otherwise demonstrates precisely how little you know me beyond my voice and my connection to you; have you ever actually bothered to find out who I am, what I want in life?"

"Christine," he said, but I pressed forward.

"You say you love me, but it's almost as though you merely love the _idea_ of me. You don't want a wife, Erik, you want a talking, singing doll! Someone whose feelings and thoughts are merely an extension of your own, someone who won't argue. Someone –" I paused to catch my breath, and then suddenly felt very embarrassed indeed, and looked away, leaning the palms of my hands on my vanity table and letting my hair spill into my face, hiding me from him.

"You're wrong," he said, and his voice trembled. "I don't want a doll. I _do_ want a wife, a partner, a mate, but I'd managed to convince myself all my life long that such a thing was impossible. Do you think I'm made of stone? I'm not! But I am more than willing to obey any conditions you care to set if you'll let me give you my name. I can't imagine you wanting to lay your hands on me in tenderness, and that's all right. I can bear it. I wouldn't dream of ever forcing you to do such a thing; the very idea is absolute anathema to me. But I _do_ want you. Not just your voice, not just your conversation. _You._ I want to be near you, all the time. I want you to smile at me; I want to be the cause of your happiness. I know I've given you such an ungodly amount of grief, and you can't imagine how badly I've wished I could turn back the hands of time and do _so many things_ differently. I've gone about this all wrong, from the beginning. I never should have lied to you, Christine. I'm sorry I did. He has never lied to you, has he?"

Sniffling, I shook my head. Oh, these revelations; they were eating me, piece by piece, and I didn't know how to sort them in my head.

Erik sighed. "I know I'm not the superior man. It galls me; you haven't any idea how much. But I meant what I told you yesterday. I can be better than I am; I swear it. You…I was not imagining it earlier, was I, when you said you cared for me, a little?"

I shook my head again. "You weren't imagining it," I murmured, feeling a hot squeeze of pain which made it difficult to breathe. It galled me that he mattered to me as much as he did. It galled me that I did not think I could tell him _no, I cannot marry you._ It made me feel ill to think of his imminent demise.

"I know you don't love me," he said in a voice tinged with despair, and I closed my eyes. "I know it. But if you care for me…even a little…that's enough. Isn't it, Christine?"

Was it? I hardly knew anymore. This was exhausting. "I don't know if I can manage this," I said quietly. "I don't know if I can manage _you._ What if you're lying to me even now? What if you have no intention of keeping to any of the promises you've made to me? How can I _know,_ Erik? I _do_ care for you, and I want you to be happy, but you frighten me."

"I told you I wouldn't beg for your love, or your kindness, but I _will_ beg for your trust," he said in a shaking voice. " _Please_ trust me. I'll do anything you ask of me."

I straightened up, swept my curls out of my eyes, and regarded him for a long moment before answering. "No more deceit," I said. "I know you already promised never to lie to me again, but this goes beyond it. No more secrets. No more unkindness or unfeeling words. No more unthinking cruelty. If you can promise me that – and I'll promise it too – then I'll consent. I'll take your name for as long as you remain on this earth."

"I promise," he whispered. "I swear it."

I wondered then what I was getting myself into. Was it too late to turn back? But his eyes shone at me through the holes in his mask with all the desperate hope of a child, and I felt my heart constrict. "Then I swear it as well," I said quietly. _And I pray I won't regret it._


	5. Chapter V - Promise Me

A week came and went, and Raoul and I saw each other again outside the opera. We went for a long walk in my favorite park; I found myself glancing nervously about for no good reason. Certainly I had no reason to think that Erik should have followed me here – but in any case, there was nothing furtive about this visit between friends. I meant to clear the air between Raoul and me, one way or another. To my surprise, he spoke first.

"Christine," he said as he gently took my arm, "I know you said yes, that night in the restaurant – but I meant what I said, about not wanting to ask you to wait for me. I don't mean to hold you to any sort of promise – I want to make that clear."

"Raoul, I feel the same," I said. "I don't want you to feel held to any sort of obligation either. So much can change in a year or two – and I don't mean that I shan't feel the same, or you won't, but…well, things _can_ change, and it wouldn't be remotely fair for you to risk your family's disapproval on the basis of a promise you made such a long time prior."

"Let me be clear," he said, "I don't give a fig for my family's disapproval. If I want to marry you when I return, and you want to marry me, I'll do it without a second thought. Inheritance be damned!"

"Raoul, you mustn't talk like that," I said in a hushed tone. "You were born into wealth, into society – there are expectations of you. I simply wouldn't want to cause any trouble, that's all."

He laughed. "Christine, when two people want to be together, there isn't much that can stop them, is there?"

Oh, I adored him, but all this talk was a swift and bittersweet dagger in my heart. "Raoul, I have to tell you something."

"What's that, Lotte?"

I closed my eyes. "It's my music teacher. He's…declining. Dying."

"Oh, Christine," Raoul said, and he stopped at once. "How awful. What on earth is the matter? Some kind of wasting sickness?"

"His heart, I think. I'm not certain. But…" I swallowed, gathering courage. "You won't like it. Promise you won't be angry. Please."

"I…" He looked puzzled. "Christine, are you in some sort of trouble?"

"No, no," I said quickly, my words coming out all in one breath. "No, it's…he…well…" _Breathe, Christine. Breathe._ It was almost as though I could hear Erik in my head, as though we were in the under-ground house during a particularly difficult lesson.

 _I can't do it! Oh, I can't!_

 _You can, Christine. Breathe._

"Well, it's…it's not exactly simple to explain," I said. "He hasn't anyone to leave an inheritance to, and you know how difficult the laws can be about such things." _No, Christine. Whatever lie you're thinking about telling under the guise of half-truth, don't._

 _Why_ could I hear him in my head so clearly? When had _Erik,_ of all people, become my conscience?

I let out a breath. "I suppose it's more than that. He cares for me…a great deal, it would seem. And he doesn't have much longer to live."

Raoul regarded me with an unreadable expression, and the air was still, as though we were suspended in the drops of water slowly descending from the still-melting ice of early spring.

"He's asked me to marry him," I said in a low voice. "It would be mainly for convenience…he wants to leave everything to me, legally, and he has no other living relatives."

Raoul let out a puff of air, and I knew what was coming. It was the overwrought concern that I had so dreaded that night in the restaurant; it was the righteous indignation of a man who – unsurprisingly – must be feeling as though he'd been played for a fool.

I headed him off. "This is why I'm telling you, Raoul. I wouldn't want to risk your family's disapproval even at the best of times, but if I had done this without telling you, and you had come back to find me a widow – I couldn't bear breaking your heart, making you feel as though you'd been led down the primrose path, making you feel angry and obligated even though you might not want me anymore."

"Look, Christine, I know I tend to be an easygoing fellow, but this is madness," he said, his color rising. My heart sank. "This man, this… _teacher_ …claims he wants to marry you so that he can essentially leave everything to you as though you were some kind of daughter? If that isn't the most twisted thing I've heard – "

"He's dying, Raoul," I said quietly.

"So you've told me – and I believe you. But even dying men are still men, Christine," Raoul said with a bristle of his moustache, and my cheeks flushed. "It isn't like that. It isn't. You don't understand," I protested, even as I remembered Erik saying _You think I'm made of stone. I'm not._ I shivered in the cool air, but not from cold. "He promised. He promised it wouldn't be like that."

"And you believe him?" Raoul asked incredulously. I whipped my head up to look at him, my eyes wet. "I don't know!" I cried. " _I don't know!_ "

"Christine," he said in alarm, and sank down onto an obliging bench. I joined him. "I don't know what to say," I said miserably. "I'm sorry. For all of this. Everything seems to be happening so suddenly, and it's as though I'm caught in the tide – just like the little red scarf."

I knew he would know of what I spoke, and he smiled wanly, closing his eyes for a moment. "Then let me catch you," he whispered, and my heart fluttered painfully. "I'll resign my commission. We'll marry with or without my family's permission. I don't care what happens, as long as I'm with you."

"Oh, Raoul." I cried fresh tears then, unable to stop the hot flow of them down my face. "You can't. I won't let you. I _won't._ I won't let you destroy everything you've worked so hard to build merely so you can rescue me from some imagined danger."

"The danger seems real enough to me," he said gently. I shook my head. "He would never hurt me. Raoul, it will be all right. Let's…let's part as friends, just as we have been, and if…when you get back, if I'm free, and you still want me…"

"Oh, Christine, you're driving me to distraction," he muttered, and without any thought to propriety whatsoever, he enfolded me in his arms, and I remained there gladly for some moments before gently pulling away. "Promise me you won't come to any harm," he said. "Promise me you'll be all right."

"I promise," I said, hurriedly wiping at my eyes. "Oh, that I can and gladly do promise."

"Christine…I know this isn't proper, it isn't really right, but may I…may I kiss you? Just once, just before I go?" Raoul whispered. My heart went into my throat, and before I knew what I was doing, I whispered, "Yes," in turn, and I felt the slow, fumbling heat of his mouth on mine, the little bristles of his moustache tickling my face. I clutched at his coat as if I were a drowning woman, and welcomed him.

We held each other for a moment with our foreheads pressed together, not caring who saw. "Thank you," Raoul said, breathing heavily. "Thank you."

I wanted so badly in that moment to tell him I loved him, but I swallowed the words like medicine. _It can wait. It will have to._

"Promise me you'll write – whenever you get the chance," I said. He nodded. "I will. But don't be shocked if there are very few letters – or none at all. I'll do what I can."

"I understand," I said, "and Raoul – I _will_ be safe. Don't worry about me for a moment."

He closed his eyes and nodded again, and then walked me to a nearby brougham to take me home.

* * *

We did not see each other again before he left the week after, but he did leave me a letter on the day of his departure.

 _Christine,_

 _I will think of you every day. Be well. Be safe._

 _I wish you every imaginable happiness – and know that if you are ever in need of assistance, you may contact my very good friend Jean-Baptiste Fournier. I have attached his address on a separate sheet. He, like me, has served in the navy, and is currently on indefinite leave due to a severe injury of the spine, but he has formidable connections, and he has been instructed by me to give you any help you may require._

 _I remain_

 _Yours with all affection,_

 _R._

* * *

I saw Erik very little in the two weeks before Raoul departed; he had asked for time to make arrangements and get his affairs in order, and I somewhat welcomed the space and time of my own. Rehearsal seemed absolute drudgery of late, but every so often I would find a note on my dressing-room table, written in a familiar scrawled hand – saying things like _Remember to guard your throat and treat it gently_ or, my personal favorite, _Carlotta was an insufferable prig to-day. You outshone her as the cut and polished diamond outshines a mere quarry-stone._

Intermittently, he would leave me a note informing me he wished to speak to me in person at a particular time, and I would oblige him, though such visits would always take place in my dressing-room and would generally take very little time before he voluntarily exited my presence. He no longer invited me to come down to his home – perhaps out of a strange sense of propriety, perhaps because he thought I did not want to come – and I did not ask. I had not spoken to him of what had taken place between Raoul and me at the park that day, and I doubted that he knew of it himself, for I was sure he should have said something if he did; I remembered, however, my hasty promise to him that there would be _no more secrets._ I resolved to tell him _something_ at some juncture; I became very caught up in wondering, however, in spite of my promise, whether some things were perhaps best left to the vast tomb of silence.

The paperwork required for a legally binding marriage, I soon found out, was an unimaginable head-ache. I knew very little of French marriage laws myself, despite having lived in the country since I was a very young woman; I obediently provided the documents Erik requested, as well as his brief explanations, and left almost everything to him to resolve.

As I was only twenty, I had to retrieve my father's death certificate to prove that I no longer had any living family to offer up consent, and it was frankly a miracle that I was able to locate my tattered Swedish baptismal certificate amongst the mountainous sheaf of papers my father had left behind when he died. In my ignorance I thought at first that Erik was going to have to either forge or go to great lengths to obtain his own birth certificate, due to him traveling abroad and being quite nomadic for so many years, but it turned out that he had in fact obtained his identifying paperwork some years prior from his childhood home after his mother had died. I supposed I should have given him the benefit of the doubt on his gift for obtaining and keeping things of importance; at any rate, beyond this curt explanation of how he was in possession of his personal legal documents, he offered up very little further information on his background or his childhood. His legal surname, I discovered, was Deschamps. It seemed an oddly ordinary name to me, although for him, it was "filled with ghastly memories," he said brusquely. "But it was my father's surname, and _he_ was a good man by all accounts. I never knew him, only heard stories; he died before I was born."

I grew increasingly curious about him, about his long-dead parents and his – apparently awful – childhood. But I knew better than to ask for any information that he did not offer up on this particular subject. It was like an old wound in him, long and deep and hidden beneath a swath of protection.

Three days had passed since Raoul's departure, and Erik informed me in a note that the preparations for our marriage were well underway. We were not bothering with any kind of pompous formal ceremony in church; merely to have the papers signed and notarized would be enough, he wrote, and I was disinclined to argue with him. I had been brought up Catholic, but had not attended Mass with any degree of regularity in some time, and I knew him not to be religiously inclined in the slightest. I also knew how highly he valued his privacy – the less public exposure, the better.

I did not actually see him that evening, but upon the following afternoon when rehearsals had concluded, he surprised me.

I had been overtaken by a strange, mad whim when practices had finished. Instead of filing out with the other chattering singers through one of the side-doors, I quietly slipped backstage for some peace and abruptly found a narrow, dark path which wound through the waiting sets and piled props. My curiosity piqued and I decided to find where the path led out. It was at that point, as I felt my way through the dim blackness and nearly tripped over an offending loose board, that I heard a distinctive, unfamiliar voice say, _"Hush."_

I stopped dead in my tracks. "Who is there?" I whispered, feeling a cold dread creep down my spine. I swiftly realized that this little diversion of mine had been unutterably foolish. It was far too dark back here to see properly, and sound would be muffled. If an unscrupulous workman had seen me come back this way and had followed, it was unlikely I could get away or get help before being overpowered.

I tried very hard to make no noise, and to slowly inch in the direction I thought I had come. But the voice sounded ever closer. _"You dare disturb my rest."_

The "s" in rest was elongated, like a snake's hiss, and I shivered. The voice was raspy, low and almost a whisper. Without thinking, I crossed myself, an old habit from when I was a child, and now the voice said, _"Foolish,"_ with the same hissing, elongated emphasis on the last syllable as previously. I moved quickly then, and tripped backward, with an inadvertent cry, over the very board I had maneuvered to avoid just a few moments prior.

All at once I felt cool hands at my back, steadying me and preventing my fall, and before I could let out a scream, I heard _his_ voice, low and deliciously warm and familiar in my ear, saying, "It's me, Christine. It's only me."

Relief flooded me, and just as quickly turned to righteous indignation. "Do you think it's funny to frighten people?" I asked him in a furious whisper – something about being in the darkness of the backstage seemed to necessitate whispering – and he chuckled. "I've made a career of it," he said. I pulled away from him. "Well, then, do you think it's funny to frighten _me?_ " I demanded.

"Oh come now, no harm done," he said flippantly. "I'm in a good mood to-day; come with me." I could dimly see his pale hand reached out – he hadn't been wearing gloves at all, of late – and I hesitated, still peeved over his childish prank. I could almost feel his strangely cheerful mood start to turn sour as he dropped his hand, and I said, "Oh, very well," in exasperation. I grabbed for his hand and fumbled my fingers around his, feeling an odd little _zing_ at the contact with his startlingly cool skin, and I heard his swift intake of breath. " _Do you know what day is to-day?"_ he asked me in a gleeful whisper, and I furrowed my brow. "I haven't the faintest idea, other than it being a Wednesday," I said, still a bit sullen.

His voice sounded very close to my ear, and I had to keep myself from gasping. _"It's our wedding-day, Christine!"_ he exclaimed, and then a peculiar noise came out of him, something I might have termed a giggle. I flinched from it; I had very occasionally witnessed moods like this in him before. It was very unlike his usual somber solemnity or dark, dry humor, and certainly better in a way than his black moods of self-loathing, but it was no happy, balanced medium. The pendulum had swung entirely in the other direction; his behavior and manner bordered on manic during times like these, and it unsettled me in a far different way than his deep depressions ever did.

Still, I kept hold of his hand, and I let him lead me down paths only he knew, his hand slowly warming under mine, until we emerged – I knew not how – through a side door into the harsh light of the after-noon sun. He pulled down the brim of his hat, and I flung my hand over my eyes for a few moments until they adjusted to the sudden brightness. I abruptly realized that he was wearing a very different mask to-day than was his usual custom; it showed his mouth, and I didn't know what to think of the strangeness of his exposed flesh – the shockingly pink, twisted lips and off-white skin of his jaw and chin, weathered and yet entirely hairless. Everything about him seemed both old and young and in-between and I could not imagine him dying, did not want to imagine it. As I tried not to stare at his mouth, I wondered if he planned to kiss me when this was done, and a tumultuous flood of contrary emotions – dread and delight, anticipation and dismay – threatened to overtake me at once.

He saw me glancing at him in spite of all my efforts to be furtive. "I thought it best to not appear too much like a robber when we go to have the papers signed," he said, and I tried not to be too fascinated by the extraordinarily unfamiliar sight of his mouth forming words. He appeared to notice this, too, and to my chagrin, one of his hands came up, instinctively hovering over his mouth and chin as if to hide them from my view. I pulled his hand down from his face, gently but firmly. "It doesn't bother me," I said, not untruthfully.

One corner of his mouth twitched upward for a split second, and I wondered in further fascination if this was what he looked like when he smiled. "That's terribly decent of you," he said dryly, and I flushed, not knowing if he was being sincere or sarcastic. His limbs seemed to come alive with energy. "Come," he said, "we have to hurry, but not _too_ quickly – wouldn't want to collapse from an attack of overexertion," and he let out that weird utterance again, that strange, humming, almost-giggle, without opening his mouth. I quickly looked to the street, focusing my attention elsewhere, although I put my hand in the crook of his elbow.

"I'm going to tell them I was injured in the war – you know, with the Prussians," he whispered conspiratorially, and a little hum of laughter came out of him. "I daresay they won't question that, yes?"

"Of course they won't, Erik," I murmured, squeezing his arm a little, wondering if the pressure of my hand would bring him back from whatever brink he teetered on, feeling suddenly the scope and depth of my purpose in this. I realized – with only a touch of discomfort and surprise – that I liked touching him, far more than I should have ever supposed only a few weeks ago, and I liked the thought of taking care of him. I wanted to calm him, gentle him, soothe him. I wanted to be kind to him, as perhaps no one before had been (I was not at all sure the daroga counted; from Erik's meanderingly miffed utterances about him and the daroga's own aloof manner whenever I had seen him, their relationship appeared to be a strained one).

Such a generous attitude had seemed like folly for me to have when he was being dark and sarcastic and sharp-tongued, and I thought perhaps it still was. But his energetic manner and childlike enthusiasm – born of madness or no – were affecting me, and I found myself strangely looking forward to when there would be no crowds, no noise, no people. Sitting in the quiet of his home, just us. The thought didn't bring me to panic as it had previously; I realized I wanted to know so many more things about him, and quite soon I could get to know him very well indeed. I'd be his wife, at least in name; he'd tell me everything. Things he wouldn't have dreamed of telling me before this, things that would help me understand him and help him.

We hailed a cabriolet and continued on our way to the Hotel de Ville, the large building which served as the center of local Parisian government. It was still being gradually restored after damage suffered during the Communards' fire several years before, but it loomed magnificently before us in the afternoon sunlight.

The little clerk we encountered in the marriage office peered at us a trifle skeptically over his _pince-nez_ and then shrugged. "Injured, I imagine?" he asked off-handedly to Erik. "Yes," Erik said calmly. "During the war." The clerk nodded, as though this did not surprise him. I was rather worried that Erik might giggle again, but he appeared to have regained his composure quite nicely on the ride over, and the remainder of our time at the office passed without incident. Papers were presented; others were signed, a few rote questions were asked and answered, and it was all done so abruptly and seamlessly that I wondered that I had ever worried my head over it at all.

I could feel a strange energy buzzing in Erik as we left the office, my arm still in his. He said nothing, and neither did I, but something in the air between us had changed, ever so slightly, even though in many ways it felt as though nothing had changed at all.


	6. Chapter VI - Terms

**A/N: This is the last pre-written chapter I have available to post at the moment; from here on out I'll be sporadically updating as new chapters come to me. I can't promise any measure of regularity in my updates (it's taken me several months to write as much as I have), but I will do my best to have future chapters written out and posted as soon as humanly possible.**

* * *

"Well," he said at last, as we sat in the cabriolet bound for the Opera, "it's done, then."

"Yes," I said absently, staring out the window at the gathering clouds in the sky. It looked as though it was going to rain. _What now?_ I wanted to ask him, but didn't dare. I was a bit altogether too worried at finding out.

"Not much is going to change, you know," he said, and I started, feeling again that uncomfortable idea that he could somehow discern my innermost thoughts, "at least not for the next few weeks. We'll wait to leave until after the first or second week's run of _Faust,_ to give you a chance to showcase your talents at the very least, and then your understudy will take over for you for the remainder of the run." I turned to look at him then, and he suddenly became very interested in the little brief-case which held our documents and the copies of the legal papers we had signed. "That is…I mean to say, if that is still agreeable – for us to go away," he said, and I wondered again at this strange new side of him, this shyness, this deference. "If it is, I shall start making all the arrangements."

"It is more than agreeable to me. I'm not entirely sure the managers will enjoy my taking a sudden leave of absence," I said, "but then again you've always proven quite capable of handling them. I trust you in this."

I saw, to my fascination, a slight flush begin to bloom on his chin. "I – yes, very well. Thank you," he said in what was almost a stammer, and I felt a strange, warm feeling in my belly, something like pleasure. Erik the Husband was ever so different from Erik the Teacher, and I began to not at all idly wonder what he would do if I actually let him kiss me. I liked this feeling of wielding some measure of power over him – understand that there was nothing cruel or sadistic in my satisfaction, merely that I had felt inferior to him for so long that it was highly pleasing to feel that all things had become equal. He had, in the past, wielded a great deal of power over me; it made me feel almost giddy to consciously wield power over him in kind.

But I did not wish to make any rash decisions, and I had an inkling that I must be very careful not to trifle with him or his affections; he _was_ a man, after all, just as Raoul had said, and I was not a cruel person by nature. _Don't start anything you can't finish,_ I thought to myself with a shiver, and reminded myself that for all his shyness at this moment, Erik was by his very nature a bit like a bear. Mind your own business, and he would mind his, but prod him, poke him, and he would become dangerous.

"Well – after my performances, where shall we go first?" I said lightly, belying the tumult that I actually felt. He straightened. "I know you had wanted to travel extensively," he said, "and would that I could manage it. But I'm afraid that may not be possible." He must have seen my face fall, for he quickly continued, "That is not to say we cannot travel at all – I was going to tell you just now, I've recently purchased a little house in the country. It's quiet, and beautiful, and it has everything we need. We can still practice – I'll play my violin, and you can sing, and we can have a happy sojourn there. The fresh air will bring color to your cheeks, and perhaps I will feel more at peace surrounded by earth and growing things. I _want_ to live aboveground, with you. I think – I'd like to have a little garden. There's plenty of space for it, Christine. Would you like that? Would you like to tend the garden with me, and live there for a little while?"

I was so taken aback by this extraordinary speech that it took me a moment to think of what to say. I felt tears stinging at my eyes. Never had I truly known this layer of Erik, this earnest and gentle side of him which wanted above everything else to be _ordinary._

"In the meantime," he said, talking far more quickly than was his general custom, "while we're still in Paris, I think I'd like to take you out on Sundays, just like this – we can take rides in carriages and go walking in the parks, and we can wear our best clothes. Won't that be marvelous, Christine?"

I closed my eyes. "Yes," I said, "to all of it," and then I opened my eyes and I found his hand, which I hesitantly clasped. He swallowed, and I smiled at him. His mouth twitched again in that funny way.

Before I could restrain myself, I suddenly asked without the slightest bit of tact, "Do you know how to smile? Properly, I mean?" I could have kicked myself once I had said this, but it was too late.

I saw him blink inside his mask. "That's for your benefit, in point of fact," he said flatly. "If I were to really smile, I can't imagine you'd find the sight anything other than grotesque. But of course I _know_ how, and I have before in your presence, many times, when you haven't been able to see behind my mask."

I clasped his hand more tightly. "You think I'd be frightened?" I asked, suddenly feeling a wave of sorrow for this man and what he must have endured throughout his life.

He looked away. "Yes."

I moved closer to him, cautiously. "I wouldn't be," I said. "I promise I wouldn't."

He sighed. "Promises are all well and good, Christine, and you _have_ been very kind to me to-day – and I thank you for it – but I do not wish to overextend your generosity."

I touched his shoulder, and I felt him shiver. "I'm very sorry for the way I behaved when I first saw you – when I _very_ first saw you," I said, and he let out a long, slow breath. On a sudden whim I would have laid my head there, on his shoulder, but the cabriolet came to an abrupt stop not far outside the Opera, and the moment broke as though it were some sort of spell.

I drew back and hastily grabbed my reticule. "So what happens now?" I finally asked. "Over the next few weeks…will I merely be visiting as I normally do or will I be staying there, in the house underground?"

"I told you not much would change," he said. "I won't ask you to give up your apartment just yet if you'd rather stay there. Anything you'd like to have moved to the house in the country, let me know and I'll have it done. I…" His mouth twitched, but not in a smile. It seemed more nervous than anything. "I would like to see you, to have you stay with me, but I won't demand it." We disembarked from the cab and walked the remaining distance to the iron door on the Rue Scribe in silence. Erik took the key from his pocket and then hesitated, not looking at me. "I can call another hansom cab if you'd like," he said. "If you'd rather go home."

Part of me, the part that had read a great deal of romantic stories, knew that this was the juncture at which I ought to say something like _But this is my home now,_ or _My home is with you._ And yet all of the warm, comfortable feelings from earlier had vanished; I no longer looked forward to being alone with him. I feared it, shrank from it, despite all of the promises lingering silently in the air that he would do nothing to harm or violate me. He wanted my trust, and yet I did not know if I could give it. Alone, under the earth, I would have no recourse and no ready escape if he changed his mind about his promises. Ill he might be, but I knew that even so, my own strength was feeble in comparison to his.

I opened my mouth slightly to speak, and yet the words _Yes, please, call a cab_ did not come, and neither did _No, there's no need for that._ I stood as though poised at the edge of a terrifying precipice, my hands clutching my reticule so tightly I thought all the blood must have drained from them.

Erik was very still for several moments, but all of a sudden he moved with swift, tense energy, twirling the key in his hand and unlocking the gate. "Very well, then," he said, "since you don't appear to be able to make up your mind. Come."

Caught off-guard, I allowed him to lead me – oh, this was very much like the old days, in which I was so incapable of making decisions that he took it upon himself to make them for me. My own woman I was surely not, at least not in this moment, and I felt a vague disgust that I had so easily fallen back into my old habits. Part of me was, however, utterly relieved that I had not had to either risk giving false impressions by verbally consenting to stay in his home or hurt him by outright refusing.

When we reached the door to his house, I stood awkwardly by him as he manipulated the outside locks. "Shall we?" he asked curtly as he opened the door, and I wordlessly stepped inside.

The door shut behind us with a heavy _boom_ , and I started as though I had seen the devil himself. Erik walked by me and then grunted, his shoulders tensing in pain.

The awkward stupor which had gripped me lifted at once, and I rushed to him. "Are you all right?" I asked. "What is it, what's the matter? Do I need to get the daroga? What can I do?"

His lips formed what almost seemed like a half-amused grimace as his hand pressed to his chest. "Christine, it's all right. This is nothing. It will pass."

"Erik—" I protested, and became imprudent in my agitation. I placed my hand on his arm, then on his hand where it pressed against his coat. His eyes flicked up to meet mine, and I saw _something_ there, just for an instant, which stole my breath and caused an altogether unexpected little lick of warmth in my belly.

But before I could fully process this sensation, he closed his eyes. "Don't fuss over me so," he said. "But help me to the chair over there, would you? I'll be all right if I sit."

Taking his hand and his arm, I supported him as we made our way across the room to his usual sitting-place. He let himself fall into the chair heavily, and his lips pulled back in a swift grimace before closing again.

"You're _not_ all right," I said. "You're not. I'll get some water." Before he could protest, I quickly went to the kitchen and poured water into a glass from the tap. When I brought it to him, I noted that he had gone still again, his eyes silently regarding me with an unreadable expression, his mouth a calm (if twisted) line. I wordlessly handed him the glass and he took it from me with a brief, quiet thanks.

After a moment, he glanced back up at me without having yet taken a drink. "Don't _hover_ , Christine, _"_ he said in a mildly exasperated tone, and a flush came up in my cheeks. All the things which bubbled up to my lips to say – _I'm only concerned for your well-being_ or _Perhaps you'd prefer I didn't care at all_ died in my throat; I knew he no doubt saw this as some sort of ill-placed pity, and that pity had always made him irascible and ill-at-ease.

I sat down on the chaise, not far from where he sat in his chair, and looked away to give him his privacy; he never ate or drank in front of me and I doubted he meant to make an exception to-day, even with his new mask. There was a moment's silence, and then I heard again, "Thank you, Christine," in his soft baritone, and the sounds of him swallowing the water.

"I don't mean to fuss," I said, still not looking at him. "And I assure you that it is not pity which drives my actions, but care. You _must_ allow me to take care of you, Erik."

"That is admirable of you, but as I have previously assured you, _I am quite capable of caring for myself_ ," he said flatly, and I turned to shoot him a look. "Then you ought not to have married me," I retorted. "You are ill. You need help. I am more than happy to provide it."

His lips contorted slightly and he turned his face away with a loud exhalation of air. "I will not suffer being treated like an invalid," he said in a biting voice. "Not yet. Ill I may be, but I'm not so ill as that yet."

"Fine," I said calmly, swallowing my anger at his sudden onset of cold stubbornness. I stood up and began walking to my room. Behind me, I heard him move in his chair. "Wait," he said, a tinge of desperation in his tone, and I slowly turned back to face him.

"I didn't mean – I'm no good at this, you know that, I've told you," he said, and I sighed. He shifted uncomfortably. "Come back and sit, at least for a moment – I need to discuss some matters of importance with you."

"Can it wait?" I asked, feeling mildly irritated by the constant vacillation of his moods. "I'd rather be alone for a while, I think."

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then his shoulders slumped and his mouth snapped shut as if he'd thought better of it. I closed my eyes and momentarily prayed for patience before saying, "Very well," and resuming my seat on the chaise.

Silence blanketed the room like an awkward shroud. His fingers were doing their nervous dance on the arms of his chair again, and the irritation welling up inside me began to feel like hot bile in my throat. Still, I sat in silence, my hands folded demurely in my lap, waiting.

"As to the matter of our legal union," Erik said, his voice quieter than usual, "I am aware that this is a matter of some…discomfort…for both of us…but it must be discussed."

"What matter?" I asked calmly, although I thought I knew, and a pit of unease began gnawing at my gut.

"You have already set terms on certain behaviors, prior to our becoming wed," he said. "No deceit, no cruelty, and so on – and I accepted these, gladly. But there are…other things…for which terms have _not_ been set, and although I can certainly _surmise_ the way of it, I cannot be sure until you tell me aloud in no uncertain words. We will have it out now, and then we need never speak of it again, I assure you. But we _must_ have it out, or out of my reluctance to offend, I shall drive myself to distraction while silently pondering the subject of my limits."

The prudish child in me wanted to feign further innocence, if only to delay the certain awkwardness of this conversation, but the pragmatic woman in me knew that he was right. It must be discussed. The problem, however, was that I hardly knew what to say.

"Well," I said, and I twisted my fingers a bit in my lap. "Speak your piece, then."

He swallowed, and straightened. "I rather think it might be more appropriate for _you_ to speak first, don't you? You are the one setting these terms, after all."

"Erik, I don't know what you want me to say," I said helplessly. "I don't know what I _ought_ to say."

"There isn't any _ought_ , Christine," he said in exasperation. "And it certainly isn't about what _I_ want, is it? If it were, this conversation would be quite different."

Color rose in my cheeks. "I don't know," I said. "I don't know how to talk about this. It doesn't feel right."

"As fetching as you look when you are embarrassed," Erik said calmly, "you are, as you have so succinctly told me, not a child any longer. Might it help somewhat if I were to ask you questions, and you were to answer them, rather than providing the entire narrative yourself?"

My tongue darted out nervously across my lips, which felt bone-dry. "I – yes, I suppose so," I stammered.

Erik leaned back in his chair and took a long breath. "I will be as frank as I care to be," he said, "and I expect you not to bolt from your seat like a frightened deer. You will sit here, you will remain seated for the duration of this conversation – as will I – and you will answer these questions in a clear, coherent manner. Is that clear?"

Feeling mildly affronted at his suggestion that I could not manage to listen to any sort of talk of this nature, not to mention being _ordered_ to remain seated – I nevertheless nodded with pursed lips.

"I am going to preface this with some rather crucial, if humiliating, information," he said, and took another long breath. "While I am no stranger to the sorts of things people sometimes do together – I am well-read, well-traveled, and if I am being perfectly honest, have seen things I was more than likely not meant to see – I myself have never partaken in such acts. I have not been with a woman in any remotely intimate sense, nor have I ever paid for such attentions. _However,_ as I said, I am at the very least _familiar_ with what goes on between intimate partners, although I have no reference whatsoever for what _you_ are familiar with."

My face, I was certain, had gone crimson; I would not have been the least bit surprised if my cheeks could have boiled water.

"I certainly do not mean to imply that _you_ have partaken in such things," he said quickly, and my face grew even hotter. "Merely that I know people in the Opera tend to talk, and you are old enough that I imagine you have heard _something_ about intimate activities between husbands and wives – or, for that matter, men and women who might or might not be wed to each other. Am I correct?"

"Yes," I said, willing myself to speak, and telling myself over and over that _I am married; I am grown up; I am quite capable of having this conversation. Even with him. Especially with him; he is my husband. There is nothing to fear. He is not being salacious. He is speaking of this as politely as he knows how. There is nothing to fear._

"I haven't – either," I said, my words a stumbling mess, and I bit my lower lip in consternation. "But I know. About…things." It was the sort of thing someone a few years younger than myself might have said, and I was humiliated that I could not have brought myself to speak any more plainly.

He gave a tight nod, and I wondered if he felt half as embarrassed as I did. But as in so many other things, he was effortlessly taking the lead, and I was half-grateful for it, as I had been outside the iron grate.

"Very well then," he said, his voice sounding very contained and controlled. "Am I correct in assuming that you do not wish to consummate this union?"

My breath left my throat, and after a moment, I nodded.

"Am I correct in assuming that you do not wish to share a bed in any capacity?"

My stomach felt as though it were made of knots; again, I nodded.

"You can answer aloud, you know," he said – rather petulantly, I thought – and I said, a bit too loud, "You're correct. On both counts."

"Very well, then," he said. His hands and fingers no longer moved nervously; they were as still as shadows on the arms of his chair. "Forgive me, but I must continue. I assure you that this uncomfortable conversation will be over with quite soon. Am I correct in assuming that you do not wish me to touch you of my own volition?"

I blinked. "If you mean that I don't want you to touch me at all," I said, "then no. You're not correct."

He drew in a breath. "What I mean, Christine," he continued shakily, "is that I am assuming – and I am not certain of this, which is why I am asking for your clarification – that you do not wish for me to touch you under any circumstance unless you touch me first."

I bit my lip again. "I – well. You can touch my hands whenever you like, and of course if we go out, you can take my arm. You don't need to ask, or wait for me. If I don't want you to, I'll tell you straightaway. You can touch my face, too, if you'd like. With the same stipulations." I felt as though I'd run the length of a street for all that it was difficult to breathe. It was true, hands I knew for certain I did not mind – although I had voiced the permission to touch my face on a sudden, flighty whim.

Erik's fingers twitched. "You mean this." It was not phrased as a question, but I knew it was. I hesitated for a split second, and then nodded. "Yes."

He let out a sigh – whether of relief or frustration was hard for me to tell. "Very well, Christine. Thank you." He was silent for a moment, and then, almost as though I had emboldened him, continued, "May I be allowed to touch your hair?"

It was the first direct inquiry he had made in this line of questions – none of the other questions had involved an actual request for permission, merely confirmation of assumption – and I was mildly taken aback. "I – " I was forced to think about this for a moment. "If you ask my permission first, then yes," I said, a trifle uncertainly.

I saw just a glimpse of his real smile then – both corners of his lips curved upward, and although a moment later it was gone, his manner seemed more relaxed.

"May I – " he swallowed again, and I saw again a faint flush on his chin, "may I – you have told me you'll allow me to touch your hands with what I assume you meant were _my_ hands. But what of…" He appeared to be struggling with this one, far more than any of the others, and I lost some of my own embarrassment in the face of his. "It's all right, Erik," I gently urged him. "Ask me."

"What of my lips?" he finally inquired, and color shot back into my face with the speed of a racing-horse. "Might they also be allowed to touch your hands on occasion?"

 _Many a gentleman kisses a lady's hand,_ I thought, _and of course a husband might be expected to kiss his wife's. You might allow him this. There is hardly any harm or breach of propriety in it._

"Yes," I said quietly, and he shot me an incredulous look. "You mean it," he said again, "you truly mean it," and I nodded.

He seemed at a loss for words. "I – thank you, Christine," he said at last.

I wondered that he had been seemingly so much more flummoxed by this particular question than asking me about sharing a bed; perhaps he had simply thought of it in far more pragmatic and aloof terms, the question already answered in his mind before it had even been asked, and my actual answer had not surprised him as this had.

"And…" All pretext of confidence or aloofness fled, he seemed quite timid now, his manner suddenly reminding me of Raoul as a lad when we had explored the shores and little caves at Perros – Raoul had possessed the perpetual manner during those days of wanting but not quite daring to ask me something aloud. I gave a small sigh. "It's all right," I said again. "You needn't worry. Ask me whatever you like."

Erik hooked a finger into his shirt collar and tugged briefly at it, as though it were too tight for his neck. "I – well. I can't imagine you'll say yes to this, but – what of your face? Might I perhaps be able to very occasionally – _very_ occasionally – put my lips to your cheek, or perhaps – more appropriately – your forehead?"

All of my earlier irritation from the very beginning of the conversation had fled; even my embarrassment had fled. I felt a sudden wave of endearment, though I was careful not to let it go too far to my head – _remember how quickly his moods can change, as swiftly as the wind changes direction in a storm_ – and I found myself quietly saying, "Yes."

His mouth spasmed, and he flung his hand up over it. "You're much too good to me, Christine," he whispered through his fingers. "Too good, my angel."

"Nonsense," I said with a shake of my head, though I was acting a bit more calm than I felt. "Any other questions?"

"One," he said. "Just…just one. You won't be angry with me for asking this, will you?"

"Erik, I don't even know what you're going to ask," I said gently, and he shuddered.

"I…I can't imagine…but considering your previous answers, I don't know…and I might as well ask, just to have it done, and out. Might I ever be permitted to…to kiss…"

"My mouth?" I asked quietly, even as I felt spots of color bloom in my cheeks, and he nodded.

I sighed. "I don't know," I said truthfully. "I can't answer that yet. At the moment…I don't think…but that might change. And I'll tell you if it changes. Is that fair?"

Erik nodded again. "More than fair," he said with some amount of relief in his tone. He suddenly glanced at his pocket-watch. "Oh!" he said. "Forgive me. In all of this I'd forgotten to prepare us a supper. You must be famished."

"A little," I admitted, "though I'd forgotten it amidst everything else. But you're ill," I said suddenly. "Do you want me to – "

"I'm fine now," he said firmly. "And I wouldn't hear of it. Stay there, don't move. It won't overexert me to prepare some bread and cheese, at least. I know it's simple fare, but – will that be agreeable?"

"Perfectly agreeable," I said, and his mouth curved upward for a moment again before he disappeared into the kitchen.


	7. Chapter VII - Scruples

**A/N: Believe it or not, while I was writing this chapter I actually became frustrated with my own characters, as though they were real people. This slow burn I'm doing feels very natural as it's unfolding, and rushing it would do both the characters and the story a grave disservice, but it is absolute torture to write. (What I'm trying to say is that this chapter was almost as much of a tease for me as it probably will be for you, as weird as that sounds since I'm the one writing the damn thing.)**

 **I want to thank each and every one of you who have given me such spectacularly kind words both on here and on tumblr, since I haven't had time to give out very many individual replies. I am utterly overwhelmed by the love this story is getting and I'm very much looking forward to turning out more chapters as quickly as I can provide them without sacrificing quality. You are this story's lifeblood, my darling readers! Thank you so much for your encouragement (and a special shout-out to Wheel of Fish, whose wonderful cheerleading and inspiration are the main reason this story got polished up and posted in the first place).**

* * *

Conversation grew surprisingly easy over supper; we discussed the _Faust_ production and commiserated over the posturing of Carlotta as Marguerite. "You would make an excellent Marguerite, you know," Erik said, tearing off a piece of bread with his fingers and abruptly glancing at me for a moment.

"Erik, you can eat," I said, my voice tinged with mild exasperation. "Kindly don't starve yourself on my account. I won't look if it bothers you."

"I _am_ quite a bit more hungry than usual; ordinarily I don't have much of an appetite and only eat as little as I require to survive," he said, still holding the bread in his fingers. "My sense of taste, you see, is not very sharp."

"Oh?" I asked curiously, looking away as I sipped my wine. I saw him quickly taking a bite of the bread and swallowing it out of the corner of my eye.

"The senses of taste and smell are, unfortunately, rather inextricably entwined," he said dryly, and I felt a swift flush up the back of my neck. "Oh," I said rather stupidly, as an image of his uncovered face swam unceremoniously through my mind. He gave a dark little chuckle and commenced eating a slice of cheese.

I turned back to my plate, keeping my eyes averted from him as I ate. "As for Marguerite," I said between bites, "who knows when there will be another production of _Faust._ Carlotta is firmly ensconced in the role, and I'll be gone for most of this run, so it hardly matters."

"Still," he mused, "I _would_ like to see you in the role. A pity we'll be gone, or I might be tempted to make the marionettes dance."

I looked at him then. "What do you mean?" I asked cautiously.

He sipped his wine, seemingly no longer caring that my eyes were now on him. "Oh, you know…" he said lazily. "Carlotta _could_ have an accident."

"Erik!" I gasped, and he spluttered a bit, choking with silent laughter. "Oh, come now, Christine, what do you take me for? Carlotta isn't worth the effort to _kill_. I was speaking merely of her voice. There is more than one way to induce a sore throat – slipping something into her tea, for instance – "

"Erik, Carlotta aside – and that's horrible enough, don't you dare – _how_ can you speak of killing so cavalierly?" I asked, my sudden spike of dread making me reckless. " _Not worth the effort,_ indeed…and just how many people _were_ worth the effort, I wonder?" He had briefly mentioned to me once – in a particularly dark mood – that he had been briefly employed as a professional assassin in Persia for the Shah, ridding him of his political enemies, but he had given me no explicit details. He had, however, appeared to mention it with some faint measure of remorse. The subject had nevertheless utterly terrified me. I had never pressed him further about that time in his life, and he had never offered to enlighten me.

He grew sober for a moment. "I don't wish to talk about it," he said abruptly, and shoved another piece of bread into his mouth.

I felt a sick coil of unease, but after all, this was not exactly an appropriate subject for the supper table – and I was feeling far too squeamish. I knew I must ask him about it – firmly, with no room for him to squirm away from it – at a later juncture. I needed to know something more. I needed to know exactly what sort of simmering darkness lurked in Erik's past – had he done his black deeds out of coercion or willingness? What other horrors lay in wait there, in the far locked corners of his mind where light did not penetrate?

But I could not ask these questions now, not aloud. It took me several minutes – during which we sat in complete silence – to gather myself and bite back my rising nausea enough to finally bring the conversation back to the previous subject.

"Well," I said with a mild lack of conviction, picking uninterestedly at my bread, "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm perfectly happy playing Siebel," and then he fixed me with a glare. "A little ambition would not harm you, Christine," he retorted, and I felt stung.

"Do you think I would turn down the role of Marguerite if it was offered to me?" I rejoined. "Of course I wouldn't! But this is the way of things, Erik – and I don't want any trouble, not now. You've intervened on my behalf before, in harmless ways, and I thank you for it. But this – going so far out of my place – it's different."

"How?" he asked rather fiercely. "How is it different? Mark me, Christine – I have observed that Giudicelli woman for many a year since I've resided in this place, and I can tell you that there is very little that she will not stoop to in order to secure her position. She is a bully, and you would do well to keep yourself on even footing with her."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Perhaps when we come back, I can think of a way to ruffle her feathers that won't cause her any real harm. And I will of course do my best to build my own confidence, and continue my studies. But I don't want to worry about all that now."

"Christine, if not now, then when?"

"Erik, there isn't _time,_ " I said vehemently, and then I felt my face go a little ashen. I dropped my bread on my plate and leaned back in my chair. "There isn't time," I said again. "Not for this. This is nonsense. You and I – the house in the country…there are far better things to worry about."

"Perhaps I've been rash," he said. "Perhaps we shouldn't go. What if it irreparably harms your career after all, in spite of my meddling? Perhaps we should remain –"

" _No!_ " I shouted, and to my vague surprise, I saw him jump a little in his seat. "Erik, don't you see? Compared to the far more immediate matter of your health, a slight stalling of my career seems inconsequential!"

"And my health – or my happiness – _does not_ matter one whit in the face of your prospective triumph!" he said. "I can see now it was foolish to think that we should go away for such a long period of time. I don't –"

"Erik, please," I said, growing very alarmed now. "I _want_ to go. Don't you understand? I won't be able to bear it if we don't. _I cannot stay here._ "

There was a moments' pause. Erik sighed.

"Upon my word," he said wearily, "I don't know anymore whether to be the overbearing teacher insistent upon your welfare as a soprano, or the husband concerned only with your immediate happiness." He rested his chin on one hand, not looking at me, and slowly – almost timidly – held his other hand out, palm-up, across the table. After a moment, I hesitantly took it, and his fingers grasped mine fervently as he let out a shaky breath.

"We'll go," he said. "If that is truly what you want, Christine. I have no doubt that in some ways, it would be far better than remaining here. But mark me – " and now he turned his head to face me, and his gaze burned with a strange intensity, "when we return, no matter what condition I am in, you _must_ promise me to devote yourself to your music with a passionate frenzy. Grab it with both hands, Christine! Do _not_ be afraid to come into your own! If _anything_ I've taught you remains with you long after I am gone, let it be that!"

I caught my breath. "I – I promise," I said.

"Give me more conviction than that, Christine," he said, gripping my hand more tightly, and I thought I should surely melt away from the fiery intensity in his eyes.

I swallowed, and bit my lip. "I don't…I don't know how. I don't –"

"You have a will, my girl, in spite of your frequent timidity," he said fiercely, "a stubborn, steadfast, damnably obstinate will – I've come to know it far better of late, and I cannot say it isn't admirable. It is, in point of fact, one of the most powerful things you possess. Reach into that will, Christine, _and tell me you will not neglect the music when I am gone._ "

I closed my eyes, and nodded. "I promise _,_ " I whispered. I opened my eyes, and met his with what I hoped was the sort of fervor he wanted. " _I promise_ , Erik."

We sat there for a long moment, eyes locked, fingers entwined on the table. His palm was ever so much warmer than I had remembered, and his gaze held mine as though I were a snake, and he the charmer. My blood pounded in my temples.

Finally he nodded, and broke his gaze. I felt limp. "Good girl," he said flatly. His hand slid away from mine, and I was suddenly overcome with an uncanny sensation of loss. I had not expected to feel such a strange intimacy in that long moment, a flood of battling emotions, confusion and – _dared_ I admit it? – shocking little pin-pricks of desire.

It had almost been too overwhelming.

As I attempted to recover myself and continue eating my supper, a thought suddenly struck me. My eyes flicked up to meet his again, and I tried to stop my hands from shaking. "Erik," I said carefully, "When we go away – you're going to have to teach me what to do, if you fall ill. I can't imagine you'll be inviting the daroga to stay with us." I hated bringing up yet another matter which might convince him that going away was a terrible idea, but it was a subject which very much required discussion.

Erik coughed a little, and cleared his throat. "Indeed," he said a trifle uncomfortably, and continued eating.

I waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. "Erik," I said reproachfully.

He flung his hands up. "Well, of course I won't be inviting him to stay with us, Christine, and yes, it follows then that I must apprise you of how best to look after me when I have one of my little episodes – but _must_ we broach this grim topic at supper?"

I let out a frustrated sigh and gulped the last of my wine in a very unladylike fashion indeed, relishing the heady warmth which flooded my throat and stomach.

"We'll discuss it further tomorrow," he said, not expressing the slightest surprise at the manner in which I had drained my glass. "No need to dwell any more on such macabre matters to-night."

I rose from the table with my empty glass and plate. "I'm finished; I suppose I'll wash these, then." I looked at him. "Shall I take yours, too?"

"Not yet," he said. "I think I'll have a trifle more wine." He glanced at me. "Put them down on the table, Christine," he said. "I've always washed them in the past, and I intended to continue doing so. Guests do not clean their own dishes."

"I don't mind," I said firmly. "Besides, I'm not exactly a guest anymore, am I?"

Erik tilted his head and fixed me with a measured look that made my stomach feel as though it were doing an odd little flip. I turned around so that he couldn't see the color in my face and swiftly headed for the kitchen.

I was very nearly worried for a moment that he might follow me, but he remained where he was, and I washed my plate and glass in silence.

When I returned, Erik was at the tail-end of downing another glass of wine, and poured himself yet another while I watched.

"Is that wise?" I asked without really thinking, forgetting for a moment that he didn't like me to fuss.

He glanced at me. "Lingering bit of chest pain, from earlier," he said. "This helps to dull the edge, a little."

"Well," I said uncertainly. "I think I'm going to…to retire." It was a perfectly ordinary thing to say, but somehow it seemed vaguely uncomfortable to me now, given the altered nature of our relationship. I felt oddly worried, suddenly, that it might serve only to remind him of the legal rights he had sworn to forbear.

He idly twirled the stem of his glass between his long fingers. "If I were a man of lesser scruples," he said with shocking nonchalance, "I might attempt to convince you to have a glass or two more yourself – perhaps something a bit stronger than this. What fun conversations we might have then! I daresay that under the influence of drink, even I might just begin to look a trifle more handsome in your eyes than usual, and wouldn't _that_ be something." He took a very long sip of wine, and with a rising sense of dread, I began to heartily wish that I had never consented – through omission or otherwise – to stay in his house.

And yet why on earth was there a part of me which almost wanted to throw caution to the wind and join him?

"Good-night, Erik," I said with a firmness that belied my utter discomfort.

He didn't look at me. "Good-night, Christine."

I quickly turned and was about to make a beeline for my room when I heard his low, golden baritone ripple behind me. "Wait a moment."

I froze.

I cannot begin to adequately describe the hold that his voice, in such tones, held over me. His voice had taken a great many forms throughout my acquaintance with him – I had very occasionally heard his voice rise in pitch almost to a whine (and that was extraordinarily off-putting, indeed); I had sometimes heard him make his voice boom in terrifyingly reverberating shouts; I had rarely heard him alter his voice to sound like other people (which was alternately amusing and disquieting). I had heard nearly every emotion he had in his arsenal – from stern austerity to gentle pleas, from cold indifference to impassioned frenzy, from high-strung mania to deep, abiding depression and everything in-between. But this – _this._ This casual use of the power of his voice, this smooth, mellifluous flexing of his auditory muscles somehow never failed to inwardly undo me. I loathed it and yet I bent to that will as surely as the blade of grass bends beneath the heel, and I slowly turned.

He regarded me coolly from his lazy position in his dining room chair. The wine appeared to have made him very relaxed indeed. One arm was flung carelessly over the side of his chair, while the other rested atop the table with a loose grip upon his glass.

One corner of his mouth turned up very slowly, as though he were mildly amused by the easy level of control he sometimes managed to exert over me.

"I want something," he said slowly. "Will you give it to me?"

I blinked. "That depends on what you want," I said steadily, although my heart had begun to tattoo a fearful drumbeat as swift as the hooves of a hart before the hunter.

His half-smile somewhat disappeared, as though he were losing his nerve, and he straightened a little in his chair. "Well…that is – you _did_ say…"

" _Confound it,_ Erik," I said in a paroxysm of exhaustion. "I don't mean to be rude, but I'm very tired, and I'd like to lie down. What is it?"

He hesitated for a moment, and then he rose from his chair. I blinked, rooted to the spot as he slowly strode toward me. Before I could say a word, he lifted my limp hand and swiftly brushed his lips over the backs of my knuckles. Just as swiftly, he trailed his fingers over my cheek as lightly as the brush of a butterfly's wings.

I was stymied; I hadn't expected it. My hand dropped like a stone as he released it, and he stepped back.

"That's all I wanted," he said in a strangely small voice. "Good-night."

I opened my mouth, shut it again, and quickly nodded. "Good-night," I muttered, and trying not to pay attention to his eyes on me, went to my room and shut the door.

My hand hovered over the lock; after a moment, I turned it with a little _snick_ and dressed for bed, trying very hard not to think on the way my skin had tingled when his lips had passed over my hand. Oh, this was dangerous territory indeed, and it was no longer becoming at all easy to deny that there was something buried deeply in my body which yearned for this sort of attention from him, irrationally craving his affection even as I still spurned the idea of allowing further intimacy than that which had already been agreed upon. I could certainly care for him, and did, but the idea of thoroughly giving myself to him, body and soul, filled me with a deep-seated terror. Legal wife or no, I didn't _want_ to be entirely his, didn't want to disappear and be consumed. I was afraid of his love, of what it might mean to be so swallowed up in it – afraid of _him_ , in more ways than one. And if I was being entirely honest, a large part of me very much wanted to save myself – my body and my kisses – for Raoul.

But what if Raoul did not even want me when he returned, in spite of everything? What if his feelings had changed and my restraint meant nothing? And – this was a very confusing thought, full of mixed feelings – what if Erik really _wasn't_ as bad as all that? Worse, what if he _was?_ What if – what if – my mind was a tangle of _what ifs_ , and I threw down my hairbrush in disgust.

I glanced at the door, a tingle of unease drifting up my spine. I knew Erik had keys to every room in the house, and therefore a locked door was, technically speaking, a deterrent in nothing more than name.

But I knew him – or liked to think I knew him – enough to know that he had a very well-defined set of principles, one of which included never using the key to my room unless I was in some kind of immediate danger. He had told me this, in the old days, when I had first started coming to his house and did not know him very well at all as a man rather than a voice; over my protests he had stared me down with such indignant intensity that I had finally believed him, and we had never spoken of it again. I could not imagine that anything about our legal binding should have altered this early promise, especially given our recent discussion about "terms."

I sighed and shrugged off any lingering disquiet. _He won't try anything untoward,_ I thought firmly. _Remember how shy and hesitant he was just minutes ago when doing something as simple as a touch on the cheek, a kiss on the hand. I think he cares far too much to risk this tenuous thread of affection, this thin scrap of ordinariness we've attempted to create. At least, I hope as much._

I turned down the gas lighting in my room and crawled into bed, the familiar feel of the down mattress and comforter cradling me like a child, and the soothing scent of peonies drifting into my nostrils. I calmed my mind and tempered my heart, pretending for a while that this was just like any other night in his home, just an ordinary lesson-day and a convenient place to lay my head so as not to have to go back to my apartment in the gathering dark.

It worked. Slowly, I felt myself drawn down into the abyss of sleep, my eyelids fluttering and my breath easing, and I surrendered to that quiet blackness without dreams.

* * *

Morning dawned, although I certainly could not see it; my body had grown accustomed to this place after a long period of sporadically staying underground, and I generally knew when to awake even in the absence of light. As I began to struggle up from the heavy morass of early wakefulness, I heard a light knock upon my door.

"Good morning," I called sleepily. "I'll be out in a moment."

He didn't reply, and I heard footsteps trailing away in the direction of the kitchen. I stretched my arms and wished that it wasn't morning yet; despite the fact that I had gone most of the night without any recollection of vivid images, I thought I had just now been having a strangely delightful dream – although as is sometimes the way with dreams, trying to remember it was like sifting sand through my fingers. Only scraps of color and vague sensations of some imagined pleasure remained in my head, and in a few moments, these too were gone from my memory.

I washed my face, dressed, and pinned up my hair; my face looked wan in the mirror, and I pinched my cheeks to give them some color. The fact that I was doing this for Erik's benefit did not escape me, but I tossed this realization to the back of my thoughts like a discarded letter into the waste-paper bin and refused to think on it any further.

I emerged from my room and saw a splendid breakfast on the table – tartines and brioche, boiled eggs, and coffee.

"Didn't you tell me once that coffee wasn't good for the voice?" I asked a trifle teasingly as I sat at the table. I noted that he was still wearing the same mask from yesterday and felt an inexplicable little tendril of pleasure at this; perhaps it was because I enjoyed his trust, or perhaps it was for an entirely different reason.

He glanced at me. "You aren't singing today. You are taking a day off. I've already arranged it."

"Oh?" I said with mild irritation, pouring plenty of cream into my cup – I couldn't stand black coffee. Cream wasn't especially good for the voice either, but I was certainly going to indulge myself if I didn't need to worry about rehearsal to-day.

"And just what _shall_ I be doing in lieu of practice?" I inquired, looking at him over my cup.

He shrugged. "Spending time with me," he said with all the uninhibited selfish nonchalance of a child. My lips pursed. "You didn't ask," I said. "You didn't wait for my opinion. I wish you had."

He let out a long breath. "Yes," he said, "I suppose you're right. Be that as it may, I thought perhaps I could show you the house to-day, so that you can see beforehand where we'll be living in a few weeks."

I felt marginally better about this. "I'd like that," I said, and his mouth turned up.

"Finish your breakfast as quickly as you can," he said, a note of excitement trickling into his voice. "I want to leave as soon as possible."

"Surely we have time, don't we?" I asked, and he began to move with that strange energy he sometimes had, perpetually in motion even when standing still. "I want to see the look on your face," he said. "I want to see what you think of it. I want to hear you tell me."

His buoyant enthusiasm was affecting me again, and I ate as quickly as I could without making myself sick.

"All right, then," I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin, "I'm ready."

"I feel _alive_ to-day," he said, "more than I've felt in many a month. Christine, may I –?"

He held out his hand; uncertain of what he wanted, but thinking perhaps I knew, I put my hand in his. Once more he put his lips to the back of my hand, but this time the pressure was not so swift and feather-light as it had been last night; it was a little firmer and longer-lasting, and I felt a vague heat rise in my face.

His eyes flicked up to hold mine. "I have not wished you good-morning yet, have I?" he asked. "Good morning."

His tone when he said this, his gaze locked on mine, was entirely too intimate. My stomach did another odd little flip, and I slowly withdrew my hand from his light grasp, attempting to ignore the faint sense of disappointment I felt emanating from him as I did. "Good morning," I replied in as ordinary a voice I could muster. "Shall we – shall we go, then?"

"Yes, indeed," he said. "I'll get my hat."


	8. Chapter VIII - Potential

The house, he told me, was on the outskirts of a little village called Renault, roughly two hours' journey by carriage. Here he surprised me as well; he told me that he was actually planning to purchase a horse and carriage for our conveyance once we moved into the little house, so that we should not "be forced to rely upon the services of others whenever we wish to travel," he said. To-day, however, he had hired a man to take us there and back in a sturdy brougham.

I gazed in delight out of the window as the city disappeared and the countryside came into view. I had not been away from Paris in a terribly long time, save on the few occasions I had gone to Perros-Guirec to visit my father's grave. The ice of winter had faded almost entirely away now, and new life was springing up everywhere; blossoms had begun to appear on the flowering trees, and the land seemed ever so much more green and vibrant out here than it was in the city, even in its well-maintained parks.

Erik appeared to note my silent enthusiasm. "The fresh air will do us both good, I think," he said, "and once we have moved into the house in a few weeks, we shall be spending a great deal of time in it indeed."

"It's on the outskirts of the village, didn't you say?" I asked. "So there won't be very many people about."

"Precisely how I like it," he said evenly.

I measured my next words rather carefully. "Erik," I said, "does the sun…hurt your face?"

"What?" he asked abruptly.

"I thought perhaps…once we live there, you might like to walk about in the open air without…but if it would harm you, you certainly wouldn't want to, of course," I said, stumbling over my words as clumsily and uncertainly as the steps of a newborn foal.

I glanced at him, noting that he had a very peculiar tilt to his mouth. "Without?" he asked softly, wonderingly. "Without this, you mean?" He gestured to his mask, and I drew in a breath, nodding.

"I…" He paused, his mouth curving up ever so slightly, and as he straightened his back for a moment, it was as though he had briefly been infused with some sort of strange lightness, a split second of some very ordinary joy.

But just as swiftly, his posture slumped down and he drew back into himself again. "I wouldn't want to subject you to that very unpleasant view," he said, his voice gathering a tinge of darkness. I keenly sensed another of his black moods coming on, and I clenched my teeth. Ignoring the threads of disquiet and anxiety which seemed to pull ever more tightly, I shifted closer to him on the seat and, after a moment of hesitation, put my hand lightly atop his.

"I meant what I said yesterday," I said quietly. "The way in which I behaved after I had seen you, that first time…it was shameful. We have so much time now, before we arrive…I think I want to tell you about it, what I was thinking before it happened. If you want to hear it, that is. If it pains you, we don't have to talk about it."

He turned his head away from me to face the window, although he did not move his hand from beneath mine. "Tell me whatever you'd like," he said in a flat voice.

I took a deep breath, forcing down my unease. "When I came to my senses that morning, the morning after you had taken me down to your house and revealed that you were a man instead of a voice, when I had gathered my wits and begun to realize all that had transpired…I was at first incensed, betrayed, even. But amongst those ghastly feelings, I was intrigued. Curious. I thought…god help me, I thought you were hiding your face merely to mask your identity from me, nothing more. It never occurred to me for a moment that there was any other reason. I was drawn to your room by the music you were playing, and I acted swiftly and without care in my eagerness to behold the face of the Voice."

"You thought I was handsome, didn't you?" he asked in a tight, pained voice, still not looking at me. "Before you saw me. That's what you're trying to tell me."

My breathing was shaky. "I did," I said in a very small voice. "Your voice was so beautiful that it never occurred to me until that moment to think…otherwise."

Erik let out a long breath and leaned his head back against the wall of the brougham, his eyes closed. "What would you have done," he asked, "if I had been?"

"I…I don't know," I said, my voice soft and uncertain, tinged with the humiliation of my confession. "I can't answer that with any degree of surety."

"Nor should you," he said wearily, somewhat to my relief. "It's a rather unfair question for me to ask, I suppose, and very much moot in any case. And I will – _must_ – add my own apology, Christine. I acted far more shamefully than you think you did. I…don't remember much, only that I was monstrous, as monstrous in manner as I outwardly appeared to your eyes, and I cannot imagine that the incident endeared me to you in the least. I know all too keenly – and it is well-deserved, I admit – that it has, in many ways, colored your opinion of me ever since. If there were but one moment during our entire acquaintance that I could alter for the better…it would be that terrible scene."

"Thank you," I whispered. "Thank you for apologizing." I did lay my head on his shoulder then, my heart pounding at my own boldness; I heard his swift intake of breath, although he didn't move. "I wouldn't mind," I said. "If you wanted to go about in the open air without covering your face, I mean. I've grown so far beyond that alarmed, startled creature I was nearly a year ago…that's what I was really trying to say, in all this. You needn't worry about all that now. I wanted you to know that."

His hand moved out from under mine; it moved up to my face so that the backs of his fingers lightly brushed my cheek, and lingered. Half of me wanted to look at him, to garner his emotion at this particular moment; the other half was steeped in shyness and vague embarrassment. I could not remember a time when I had bared my deepest thoughts to him in such a way, even when he had been nothing more than the Voice; this was somewhat like and yet so unlike my recent outbursts surrounding his proposal. It was far different territory than standing up for myself. This seemed to be both the beginning and continuation of a slow admittance that I cared for him more than I had allowed myself to feel or express, and it both excited and frightened me.

"Christine," he whispered, and I closed my eyes at the sound of his voice. "How you delight and torment me, beautiful one. And oh, how I wish I had more time."

I remained motionless, my heart in my throat; my head still rested against his shoulder, and my eyes were still closed. His fingers moved slowly and began to trace a feather-light path down my cheekbone, ghosting a faint caress over my jaw and then passing very quickly indeed over my lips, barely touching them at all. A soft sound came out of him, and my mouth opened ever so slightly. Oh, what a wanton feeling came over me at that moment – in spite of everything, I was ashamed to realize I wanted more of this.

A shocking, unbidden image sprang up in my head of a dim candlelit room, of his hands moving all over my body in the flickering light, his fingers trailing over my skin and his voice, _that voice,_ whispering " _Christine,"_ at my ear. Sudden heat inflamed my body and flared between my legs, leaving secret dampness in its wake, and it took all the willpower I possessed not to gasp.

My heart pounded in my chest as wildly as a gypsy's dance, fear and unexpected desire warring like little dueling flames. Propriety dictated that I should sit up at once, move away and primly pretend I had not been the least bit subject to lurid imaginings; wantonness would have me plead with him to continue touching me, to never stop. A rather shaky compromise between the two was what I chose, and that was to feign that I had fallen half-asleep, and to continue resting my head upon his shoulder – hoping and yet not asking that he would continue on with his whisper-light caresses and murmured revelations, that I would continue to feel his adoration bleeding through every motion and expressive undertone and that I should soak it up like sunlight; perhaps it would be a catalyst for gathering more of my courage.

But instead, he withdrew his hand from my face, and I felt again that same emptiness, a vacuum which, to my utter chagrin, only his touch could seem to fill. After a moment, however, he carefully moved his arm so that it was hovering behind me, rather than at my side as it had been. "Christine?" he whispered very softly, and I murmured "Yes?" in response.

"Do you mind this? Is this…too much?"

"No," I said quietly, "of course not."

His arm pressed gingerly around me and his hand rested gently atop my elbow, though I could feel the tension in his hesitant half-embrace. "You're quite sure," he asked doubtfully.

"Yes," I said reassuringly, "it's all right." Perhaps it ought not to have been, but I truly was beginning to feel a trifle heady and reckless. Oh, this all felt very new and intriguing indeed, for now I was pressed lightly to his side – full of sharp, jutting angles, right through the scant padding that his layers of clothing provided – but I couldn't seem to bring myself to care. A little thrill infused my spine. I could feel his fingers tremble at my elbow. "May I touch your hair?" he whispered. "Just for a moment."

"If you like," I said carelessly, seemingly lacking altogether the capability of being shocked at my own permissiveness. "Although I can't imagine it would give you very much pleasure, as it's all pinned up."

"Not all of it," he said in what was almost a purr, his fingers drifting to the few wispy tendrils which had come free from their moorings at the base of my neck. I confess I hadn't expected this. _I should be appalled,_ I thought idly, my eyelids fluttering closed again. _I should be utterly taken aback._ But I wasn't; the stirring of the little bits of hair at the back of my neck raised goose-flesh on my skin, and then suddenly there was a smooth, cool pressure as he became bold and trailed his fingers over the back of my neck itself. This time I bit my lip in order not to gasp, but he apparently noticed, because he withdrew his hand at once.

"I'm forgetting myself," he said. "Forgive me."

 _I didn't mind it,_ I thought, but somehow lacked the gumption to say it aloud. I turned my face up to look at him, and he looked back; I suddenly realized that I was far too close to his mouth and felt a faint stirring of panic.

"You'll be the death of me, Christine," he said in his rich, honeyed voice, and I quickly looked away. The novelty of being surrounded by his arm and pressed to his side was swiftly beginning to wear off; comfortable he was not, and I was no longer relaxed. The earlier haze of wanton longing had lifted, and this had begun to feel too strange, too sudden and swift. I straightened my posture, hoping he wouldn't be offended. "How much longer to the house?" I asked nonchalantly, and he glanced at his pocket-watch. "A little over an hour," he said, "far too long to be in a clattering brougham. I apologize." He awkwardly lifted his arm and returned it to his side; I wasn't certain whether to be disappointed or relieved.

"Has it been nearly an hour already?" I asked. "I never would have guessed as much."

"Time flies when you're in fair company," he said, "though I'd say that's a trifle one-sided in this case." He lifted his hand as if to touch my face again, but paused and instead lowered his hand and placed it on his knee.

I regarded him for a moment, trying to think of something clever or reassuring to say but unfortunately coming up short. "Your company is enjoyable enough," I finally said.

"You're very kind," he said flatly, and I could hear in his voice that he didn't believe me. "Let us speak of _Faust_ , shall we? And let us talk more of your breath control."

"I thought I wasn't singing today," I replied, and he shook his head. "You aren't. We're merely speaking about it. Tell me…" and for the vast remainder of the time to Renault, Erik the Husband became Erik the Teacher again. His enthusiasm for playing the part had not waned, and I found myself snapping to attention the way I always had as his student. He became distant again as we spoke, aloof and controlled, no trace of acknowledgment of the brief intimacy we had only just shared.

Time passed in the brougham very quickly indeed as we (though mainly he) spoke of technique and timing, of acting and elevation of art. He did not touch me again for the remainder of the journey, and I made no effort to touch him – perhaps it was for the better this way, although I still could have sworn I felt a little tingling ache along my treacherous skin where he had grazed my neck with his fingers.

"Ah," Erik said at last, "it appears we're reaching our destination."

The brougham slowed, and clattered to a stop. We disembarked, and Erik took my hand as I stepped out.

"Oh," I breathed.

It was as though I had entered a book – the house was what might be termed a cottage, though moderate in size, nestled in greenery and surrounded at its back by tall trees. The chimney was covered with ivy, though the land seemed well-maintained. The front door was painted in red, of all things – but rather than look ominous, it seemed perfectly at home with the bucolic charm of the rest of the house.

Erik was looking at me; I could tell already that he was pleased by my reaction. "Wait here a moment," he said, and he went to pay the driver. "Go into town," I heard him say in low tones, "get yourself some refreshment – though not of the kind that will inebriate, I certainly trust – and be back in an hour, will you? There's a good fellow."

It was ever so odd hearing him speak to other people in public – I had hardly ever had occasion to witness it, and when I did, I never ceased to find it slightly off-putting. He had a particular quality to his voice when he spoke to strangers, as though he were playing yet another role; knowing all too well his utter dislike for people in general, it was always strange to hear the false geniality in his voice, the contrived amicability that seemed – or at least, was surely intended – to put others more at ease regarding his odd appearance.

So many roles I had heard and seen him play over the course of our acquaintance – the Voice, the Teacher, the Ordinary Citizen, the Ghost – but of all these, it seemed the Husband was the most genuine, the most sincere. It unsettled me for a moment, however, to think that perhaps even the Husband was yet one more façade, one more veneer to hide the raw layers beneath. I suddenly yearned to know the real Erik – all, not just scraps and pieces – more than I ever had, and given the short amount of time he had said was left, I wondered if I ever would.

When he returned from the brougham, I fearlessly took his arm. He acted stymied for a split second, but accepted this without question or complaint. "This is only the outside, of course," he said, gesturing at the house. "The inside isn't furnished yet, as I have yet to bring over any of my things or yours, but at the very least you'll be able to see the _potential_ of it, of what it could look like once we've settled in."

"I very much like the red door," I remarked. "It stands out; it says 'Look at me!' in a way that isn't at all overbearing."

"Like a certain songbird I know," he said, and I blushed. "What on earth do you mean?" I asked incredulously, my cheeks far too warm for my liking. "I disappear when I'm on stage; I blend into the scenery, even when I sing by myself. I'm not greedy."

"No, you never have been that," he remarked, "but you give yourself far too little credit. When you are on stage, people _notice_. They look. Have you never felt their eyes on you, summing you up and taking the measure of you? I have watched their faces from my box, Christine, and I can tell you without a doubt that they do this, and they certainly do not find you wanting. They want _more_ of you, more of your voice, your presence. When you perform, you shrink from their attention in your _mind_ , perhaps, but your body language and your voice nevertheless command it. It is quite breathtaking."

I was nearly overwhelmed by this flush of vaguely sensual praise. Instinct wanted me to shrink, indeed, though force of will compelled me to pretend I was mostly unruffled by his speech. "I…thank you," I said uncertainly.

"You're quite welcome," he said smoothly, still sounding and acting far more like the Teacher than the Husband. I could feel his forced aloofness, his carefully measured artificial calm, and I wondered if perhaps the incident between us in the brougham had unnerved or upset him in some way.

I pressed my hand a little more firmly into the crook of his elbow, and I felt him relax ever so slightly. Did my touch reassure him? I hoped it was so; after all, one of my goals in this had been to show him not a small measure of kindness before he left this earth – and _oh,_ I hated thinking of that, hated thinking of Erik not being alive anymore, hated thinking of the empty space in my own life without him. And wasn't that a strange thought in and of itself, for while I could have feasibly gotten along quite capably without Raoul, love him dearly though I might, I was having a most difficult time picturing my life without Erik. It unsettled me, this belated realization; I was unsure of its higher implications. Did it simply have to do with unhealthy fixation – whether he on me, or me on him, or both – or was it larger, more complicated than that?

I felt a swift, cool touch beneath my chin, bringing me back to reality. "Christine," his voice said, his fingers gone from my face as quickly as they'd arrived, "you're staring into nothing again. It unnerves me when you do that, child – "

I shot him a look, and he fell silent. "No," he said, "I suppose I should be more careful not to refer to you by that epithet now, should I not? Forgive me."

"I know you didn't mean anything by it," I said, "though you're quite right, I should very much appreciate it if you didn't. A child I still was, perhaps, a year ago – but I've left that part of me behind now."

"Yes, I know," he said, rather uncomfortably, I thought. "Well – " and he reached into his valise and withdrew a little bunch of keys on a ring; he opened the red door, beckoning me inside. I stepped through the threshold and noted that already from what I could see, there were several windows both large and small, an abundance of natural light. I thought this rather odd for Erik, and acting again as though he could read my very thoughts, he remarked, "I thought perhaps you might enjoy more light than I have in the house under-ground. There isn't any gas lighting in this place, so the sun makes up for it during the day, although at night we'll have to use candle-lit lamps. Is it too quaint?"

"No," I said, faintly beaming, "it's wonderful."

"You don't mind that it isn't terribly modern, then?"

I laughed. "I spent my early childhood in a tiny hovel in Sweden; the rest of it was spent wandering from this place to that. My own modest apartment in Paris – the one I shared with Professor Valerius and his wife for a time – always seemed somewhat of a luxury by comparison."

"You were fond of her, the professor's wife," he said. "I remember that you used to refer to her as Mama Valerius."

We had spoken of her at length before, when he had only been the Voice. After my father's death years ago the Professor had been my legal guardian for quite some time until his own death, and then Mama Valerius had continued to take care of me. The Professor had leased a flat in which Mama and I continued to live long after his passing. She herself had slipped away in her sleep some months ago after a long illness, and left me a small stipend in her will so that I could continue living on my own in the flat without having to rely too much on my singer's pay. Thus far, I had been lucky not to have been discovered to be living on my own without a guardian, though that was of course behind me now that I was married.

"She was very dear to me indeed," I said softly, "like a second mother, or a grandmother. I should be lying if I said I did not miss her very much. The Professor, too – he was kind, although no one could have replaced my father."

Erik tensed again and then very awkwardly patted my hand. "What of your natural mother?" he asked curiously, though gently. "You've never really spoken of her. How old were you when she died?"

"Four," I said. "I remember very little of her – just the vaguest of images, scents. I remember the smell of the bread-dough, of her hands kneading it, and the way her mouth looked when she smiled, but I don't remember her face, or her voice. Father never kept a picture of her; he said he preferred to remember her in his heart. I rather resented him a little for that, I think, although I never spoke it aloud." I was suddenly a little embarrassed to have said so much, but I suddenly saw an opportunity, and pressed forward. "Tit for tat," I said boldly. "What about your parents?"

I heard a little _hiss_ of air between his teeth, and he slid his arm away from my hand. "Not much to tell," he said tightly. "As I told you, my father died before I was born, and my mother…" His hands clenched into fists at his side. "She isn't worth talking about," he said. "Not to-day." He curtly inclined his head toward a little set of stairs. "Come."

"Erik," I said uncertainly as I followed, suddenly feeling that I had inadvertently offended him. "Why not tell me just one thing, at least? Surely –"

"Christine," he said in a very low, dangerous voice. "I. Do. Not. Wish. To. Talk. About. My. Mother. Have I made that crystal clear? Do not bring her up again. Please."

My face flushed, little pin-pricks of pain forming under my skin as though he had slapped me. I said nothing in response, but quickly changed the subject. We were on the landing now and my delight at seeing a little alcove and a window-seat to my left – it would be a perfect nook for reading – was somewhat dampened by the ill mood hanging over us. I gestured at the two doors in front of us. "These doors," I asked much too loudly, "Where do they lead?"

"Bedrooms," he said shortly. "Don't worry – as you can plainly see, there's more than one."

His voice at this moment was like the sharp, swift warning bite of a cat – not enough to break the skin, but enough to sting. I felt that the day had been irrevocably spoiled, but I felt entirely justified in my ignorance – I had spoken at length of my mother, of both my mothers; surely he could have graced me a little by doing the same? I knew so little of him, and it _wasn't fair,_ wasn't fair to be married to him and yet be so distant, as though I were viewing him from a far-off cliff on the shore. I supposed in some ways I had brought that upon myself by shying away from various intimacies, but he wasn't making it any easier by being silent or sharp.

"Erik, when I asked about your mother – I only wanted to know you better," I said quietly. "I didn't think there was any shame in that."

His shoulders slumped.

"My mother was beautiful," he said at last, "and horrible. She hated me, Christine. And that is all I am going to tell you. For now."

My heart felt as though it had been pierced with a thin little blade of pity and horror, and I felt hot tears welling up. His body language now was tense, fraught with some old remembered pain, something long buried, and I suddenly felt like the very devil for having awoken it in him.

But how could I have known?

I stepped forward – he wasn't very far away – and embraced him. It was different than it had been in the passage-way a few weeks prior; this time my arms encircled him entirely, my hands splayed against his back, though my head still only reached his chest, for which I was somewhat grateful as it made things a trifle less awkward. "I'm sorry she was horrible," I whispered. "I'm sorry she hated you. _I_ don't hate you."

There was a long pause; his arms stood out stiffly from his sides, and his body was far more tense than it had been outside my dressing-room mirror. After a moment, he gently disentangled me from him, holding me at arm's-length.

"You are…very generous, Christine," he said, in a voice that sounded like a father speaking to a child. "And I appreciate the sentiment. But I don't think that this is very prudent."

"What isn't?" I asked in confusion, trying not to feel surprised or hurt by his unexpected rebuff. After all, hadn't I been keeping him at a physical distance for quite some time, and shied away from his touch on more than one occasion?

"All this…touching," he said, releasing my shoulders. "It isn't that I don't appreciate or want it…but sometimes it can be a bit…overwhelming."

"I'm not…I'm not sure I understand," I said.

"Christine," he said with what was beginning to sound like extremely thin patience, "I…"

Suddenly he let out a breath of air, and took another step back. "Very well," he said. "If I don't at least make an attempt to articulate this, you'll simply contrive a reason in your head, which will do neither of us any good, so let me try to explain. I thought…having been so lacking in touch, that I should drink it all in, as much as I could; I thought I should absorb it like the parched earth sucks up water. But this is not always the case. At this moment I feel…boxed in. Christine, have you ever been in a very little room, very little indeed, and it began to feel harder and harder to breathe – as though the very space were closing in around you, though the room itself had not decreased a whit in size? That is what they term _claustrophobia,_ I believe – and it is very like to how I feel at this moment, how I felt when you were…"

He shifted his feet uncomfortably, leaning against the nearest wall and folding his arms against his body, his head ducked. "Memories of my mother, you see," he said with some difficulty, "are…they make me feel quite…suffocated. Other memories, too – I have had a very long and checkered past, as you know, and sometimes the most dreadful memories surface at the most inconvenient of times, as though they were swimming before my very eyes. It's as though I were witnessing something out of a night-mare, only instead of a terrible dream made of gathered bits of fiction and reality, it is in fact a vivid recollection of reality itself. This can be…difficult for me to stomach, when it happens. When you were…holding me, just now…it felt as though…" He swallowed and lifted his head to look at me. "As though ants were crawling under my skin," he said in a voice that was taut and pained. "Some vaguely instinctual part of me, I think, nearly wanted to do you an injury."

He must have noted the look on my face, for he quickly continued, "That is not to say I _would_ …I was not in my right mind for a split second, that is all I meant to convey. The idea of harming you, Christine – it's utter anathema to me. I can't fathom it."

I couldn't speak for a little while. I didn't know what to say. This was all so new and strange, so very frightening and confusing. He regarded me for a few minutes, saying nothing, staring at my face. His stance was still that of a wounded child, with his posture slumped and his arms pulled in and tightly crossed as though to protect himself from some anticipated blow. I could not begin to imagine the sorts of things that might have made this so instinctual for him, could not imagine a mother that hated her son even if he was not beautiful. But _had_ that truly been the reason? I wondered what kind of child Erik had been, if he had been as unusual then as he was now – in far more than appearance alone – and whether that might have unnerved her. Could it be that he was conflating ignorance and confusion with hatred itself? Or, perhaps, _had_ her ignorance and confusion genuinely turned to hatred after a time?

I couldn't think of it. I didn't want to. I wanted to calm and gentle him, wanted to put my hands on his arms and draw him out, but after the terrible speech he had just made, I knew that it would almost certainly be folly to try to touch him at this moment until he had calmed himself.

"Thank you," I finally managed, "for being so forthcoming. I'm sorry I'm not better at this sort of thing – at knowing exactly what to say or do –"

"Christine," he said with a strange little laugh, and to my relief, I saw him relax, "do you suppose I mind it? You have given me more allowance and understanding thus far than any other person in this world, do you know that? Given the sorts of experiences I've had in the past with…other people, I can hardly ask for more than that. I didn't mean to offend you. Forgive me, my dear, if I did."

I furrowed my brow, not certain of how to respond. "We ought to look at the rest of the house," I finally said, "before the driver comes back."

"Oh, I rather think we can take our time," he said. "Here –" and he took out the little bunch of keys again, swiftly flipping through them until he found the one he wanted. "I'll show you both of these rooms, and you can decide which one you'd like to be yours. They're much the same, really, just a matter of location and light. I rather think you'd be more interested in this one."

The one he showed me first had a charming little window looking out upon the side-lawn – this is where I thought he might be planning to put the little garden he had spoken of – and the second room had a window looking out into the forest, which was some yards away from that side of the house. I did enjoy the forest, but it unnerved me somewhat, facing the inscrutable wall of those large trees through the window. I didn't think I should be able to sleep a whit, wondering what might come creeping through the darkness and climb the low wall to peer in at night, even with the shades drawn, fangs gleaming and eyes alive with terrible light –

"Erik," I said, a small amount of odd glee mixed in with my disquiet, "did you know I'm frightening myself with thoughts of _loup-garou?_ In Sweden we called them the Varulv. Have you come across any other tales of them in your travels?"

"Several," he said, "though those are stories for another time. Why are you – " He abruptly seemed to notice the landscape beyond the window, and nodded once. "The first room it is, then," he said smoothly. "Unsurprisingly, it appears I was correct. Come, let me show you the rest, if you're quite finished conjuring up images to unsettle yourself."

I followed him wordlessly downstairs to the kitchen, feeling again quite irritated and not sure what to make of his ever-changing moods and mannerisms, confused by my own disquiet over his withdrawal from physical contact. There again was the matter of my worth in his eyes being strangely paramount to everything else, despite my utter misgivings; it was something I knew I absolutely must work to surmount. I could not possibly continue to live like this, vacillating so constantly between two poles – one where I kept a wide distance due to how alarming and distasteful I sometimes found him, and the other where I desperately pined for his approval and even his affection. I had to steel myself against the inevitability of his death, prepare myself for it, learn to be my own woman in truth without his influence. But how could I do that without abandoning him altogether? Surely there must be some neutral territory…some firm middle ground where I remained in his presence and yet did not feel the least bit dependent upon him.

But I did not know what that middle ground might be. Our most recent exchange now had me feeling as though I were walking on egg-shells – pertaining to both the verbal and physical – and I hated feeling so unsure of myself and my purpose.

My earlier good mood had now entirely vanished, and I listened very dully indeed as he methodically (though gradually more enthusiastically) pointed out every feature of the first floor – _look, you see the crown moulding here on the window-sills, very lovingly carved by a carpenter who had clearly enjoyed his craft,_ and so on. At length, however, he appeared to notice my lack of interest and grew quite sullen again himself. I left his side and went to look out of one of the windows, looking at the little stone fence and the land encircling the house. "It's a good time of the year to be tilling the earth and planting seeds," I said. "By the time we arrive again, spring will be here in earnest." I did not voice the thought which came to me then – that he might not even live to see the fruits of such labors – and I could feel the blood drain from my face a little, though I kept my back turned so he couldn't see.

I heard his steps behind me, soft and slow and measured, and a little shiver went up my spine in spite of myself. Still I did not turn, wondering if perhaps he would touch me if I didn't look at him.

I became abruptly aware that he had placed his hands on either side of the wall by the window, and that he was very close behind me indeed. I didn't move, didn't speak, didn't turn. I felt much the same way as when I beheld a wild bird or a deer up close – move too quickly, make a noise, and they would startle and fly or bound away. But remain ever so still and ever so quiet, and you could enjoy them for as long as they chose to stay.

The end of his coat brushed almost imperceptibly against my dress – was he bending a little? – and I thought I felt the faint whisper of his breath on the back of my neck. The tiny hairs stood up; goose-flesh erupted yet again, and I shivered once more – though not because I was afraid.

We remained there for some moments; he didn't speak, and I wondered if he felt the same way as I did – if he was as worried about startling me as I was about him.

But it was impossible to stand so still for too long; at length, I shifted my feet and he moved back a step or two, as I had known he would.

I finally turned around, and saw him in an uncertain stance, one arm gently clutching the other. "Thank you for this house," I said. "I'm sorry to-day has been so…strange."

He shrugged. "Emotions run high at times," he said. "We can't exactly plan for these things, can we?" He beckoned to me. "Come, there's a back-door." I followed him, and found myself in a yard of grass and low-hanging trees. "I thought perhaps a little stone bench here…" he said, and began prattling on yet again about his plans. I listened with one ear while taking in the sounds of gathering spring with the other. The trilling of birds echoed through the meadow beyond the stone fence, fluttered through the forest beyond. _Perhaps we can go walking in the forest,_ I thought to myself, _he and I,_ and this was a strangely comforting thought. Erik finally offered me his arm again – to my inexplicable relief – and we took a short stroll around the outside of the house. I ran my fingers over the ivy on the chimney, and I saw him watching me with a very peculiar glint in his eye. Rather than shying away from it this time, I smiled beatifically at him, just to see what would happen; he cleared his throat and looked away.

The driver came back five minutes early and we did not dawdle; Erik asked me if I had seen everything to my satisfaction and I answered in the affirmative.

"Home, then," he said, referring to our return to Paris, and I felt a small smile playing upon my lips.

"Yes," I said, "home."


	9. Chapter IX - Enough

The journey back to Paris was a mostly pleasant, if subdued one. I indulged Erik by idly conversing about the plans for the house, and – for the duration of the journey, at least – we did not touch each other.

"Erik," I said at length, "if I ever upset you again – the way I did at the house, when I asked about – at any rate, you will tell me when you're upset from now on, won't you?"

He was silent for a moment. "If you wish," he said. "Although as you may have guessed, it is not my general custom to openly admit my feelings at every turn."

"So I've gathered," I said impassively. "And I do understand. Still, I should think marriage rather necessitates this sort of thing."

"Yes, perhaps," he muttered, and became very interested in looking out of the window.

"I've found," I said carefully, "that oftentimes, speaking about a troublesome thing can help to ameliorate it."

"I suppose it depends entirely on the subject," he said flatly. "Don't prod me, Christine."

"I'm not," I said quickly, with a little flash of resentment. "I don't mean to. I only…"

"Christine, this is all…quite new to me," he said heavily. "I am not overly accustomed to having a _willing_ confidante, female or otherwise; the daroga has sometimes served as my conscience and my confessional, but I daresay he has grown quite weary of such duties, and I make it a point not to burden him with that sort of thing these days. He is growing old, too, and has little time or patience for such matters. And you must understand…on the rare occasions when my conversations with him _did_ tend in that direction, it was far easier for me to speak of such things to him. I don't particularly care what he thinks of me, you see; I never really have. _You,_ however…now, that is another matter altogether. Do you take my meaning?"

"I…I suppose," I said, unsure whether to be flattered or miffed by this new but largely unsurprising revelation.

"Well, then," he said with a sigh. "That's that. I shall…endeavor…to be more direct in my conversations with you, but you must promise me to restrain yourself somewhat in turn. I don't like being badgered with questions; if I refuse to answer, I expect not to receive the same inquiry a dozen different ways in rapid succession. Is that clear?"

"Very well," I said evenly, fighting down the urge to be combative, and he nodded curtly before looking out of the window again. I watched him for a few moments, followed the line of his angular shoulder sloping into his long arm, his pale, ropy hand tapping out a silent rhythm on his knee with his impossibly slender fingers. Suddenly afraid he might catch me staring, I eventually turned back to my own window, and we remained thus for the short remainder of the journey.

* * *

The next several days passed in a strange haze of repetition, everything seeming to blur together into a single-minded purpose: prepare for the upcoming opera.

Rehearsals finally finished, and the opening night of _Faust_ was about to be underway. Nearly a week had passed since Erik and I had journeyed to see the house and while I had spent that night in his home again, and another night thereafter, I had spent the last few days in my own apartment gathering my thoughts when I was not rehearsing. He did not appear to take this as an insult; rather, he had appeared almost strangely relieved when I had informed him that I wanted to spend some time in my flat. Notes in my dressing-room had been our primary method of communication since; he had requested in his latest missive that I join him to-night in his home after the performance, and I supposed I would oblige him.

As I put on my Siebel costume behind the folding screen in my dressing-room – I had made a habit of this for some time since discovering the secret of the mirror; I didn't take Erik for a lurid voyeur but I had no intention of testing this – my thoughts drifted to Raoul. Was he safe? Happy? I was ashamed to realize that I hadn't thought of him in days. How I missed him!

I remembered his kiss – that sweet parting kiss that had been over all too soon – and I suddenly felt a knot of discomfort in my gut. My marriage to Erik may have been meant for nothing more than convenience, but it seemed to be all-too-rapidly becoming something strangely more than that, and thinking of Raoul in this manner seemed almost to be a kind of…unfaithfulness.

But that was folly, wasn't it? He was gone to the North Pole, and I could think of him all I liked if I wanted to. There was no danger or sin in it. My thoughts drifted idly as I dressed, and I remembered the softness of Raoul's lips, the tickle of his moustache.

What might Erik's kiss feel like, I wondered? His mouth had felt so dry against my hand, though quite warm. I shivered as I thought of the look I had occasionally seen in Erik's eyes, a glowing-hot ardency kept under tight restraint. Had Raoul ever looked at me that way? I tried to remember and couldn't recall it, and I thought perhaps this was because he was far too much a gentleman, born and bred. Erik's cordiality always seemed strangely manufactured, almost forced, like fitting a square peg into a round hole; Raoul's chivalry seemed far more natural, as though it were a perfectly tailored suit of clothes.

I had an inkling that Erik would _not_ exercise the same sort of gentle decorum Raoul had if ever I kissed him. Beneath Erik's thinly contained genteel façade, there was something almost animal-like about him, something raw and primal, scratching to get out.

Unsure whether this notion frightened or excited me, and very disquieted indeed that I could no longer seem to tell the difference, I began humming nervously to myself and stepped out from behind the screen, fully costumed.

"I do hope you don't think me overly presumptuous," a familiar golden voice rang out from behind the mirror, "but may I come in?"

I started, and laughed in spite of myself. "One might think I'd be used to this sort of thing by now," I said sardonically. "Yes, come in."

As he swung open the mirror and entered my room, I managed a little smile. His eyes flicked over me, and I blushed. The costumer had fitted my breeches rather more snugly than was needful, and I suddenly grew very conscious of this under his gaze.

"Are you nervous about to-night?" he asked calmly, and I nodded. "Very," I said, "although I shall endeavor not to let it affect my performance in the slightest."

The corner of his mouth curled up. Not since our wedding-day had I seen him wear a mask which entirely covered his face – it was always the one which showed his mouth now. I wondered if perhaps he was growing more confident.

"Good girl," he said, and a little glow of warmth infused my spine. Shyly, I held out my hands and he stepped forward immediately to take them in his.

He hesitated for a moment, and then lingeringly kissed each one in turn. The heat came back into my face. "You're in a good mood to-night, I see," I said as calmly as I could manage, and this time both corners of his mouth went up. "Of course I am," he said genially. "My bride is performing for all of Paris to see, and I shall be a proud husband indeed! I still should have far preferred you to play Marguerite. Siebel gives you so comparatively little opportunity to showcase your talents, though I am glad that you have at least _one_ song entirely to yourself."

"Ah, well," I said with a little shrug of my shoulders, trying not to be embarrassed by this praise, "we cannot have everything, can we? I have worked hard to get to where I am now, and that is all that matters." I found myself absently straightening the lapels of his jacket to give my hands something to do (though it was hardly necessary, as he was a meticulous dresser and never had a stitch out of place), and then I stilled as I caught him looking at me intently. His hands came up and lightly cradled my cheeks. My heart fluttered. "No," he said with a tone in his voice that flooded molten warmth into my belly. "We cannot have everything. For example, I cannot openly congratulate you among your throng of admirers after the curtain falls, if I wish to maintain my privacy. But according to our terms, I can have this, at least," and he leaned forward before I could react, putting his lips to my forehead.

Time appeared to shudder to a sparking halt for a moment, the longest moment of my life, it seemed; as he pulled back, my eyes locked with his and a sudden wild impulse threatened every bit of my good sense. I thought for a curious split second that _this_ was surely when my lips should touch his, felt myself drifting forward ever so slightly to claim my kiss in turn, but a sudden knock at my dressing-room door broke the spell like so many droplets of water falling apart. We both started, he and I, and I took a shuddering breath as I turned. "Yes?" I called shakily. "Who is it?"

"It's Celeste, if you please. Mlle. Daaé, you're needed backstage now; the performance is to begin very soon!" said the voice of one of the errand-girls. "In a moment," I called, and turned back to Erik, waiting to speak until I heard Celeste's steps fading from hearing. "Well," I said uncertainly. "I…I suppose I ought to…"

"Fly, songbird," he said, his voice seeming to fairly glow with affection. "I'll be watching from my usual place, as I'm sure you've surmised. The _ordinary_ door to my box may be locked, but I have my own…secret way." A genuine grin flashed across his mouth, startling me a little but pleasing me too. On another sudden whim I took his hand and pressed his knuckles to my cheek for a moment. "I'll see you…after," I said, and then I turned and fled my dressing-room, my stomach feeling as though it had come alive and filled with fluttering moths.

No time to process all that had happened in such a brief few minutes; no time to dwell on what might happen after the show. _I must direct all my attention to my voice, to my art. I must not think; I must simply let the music take me, as I have been taught._ Old images flew through my head as my feet flew through the hall, images of Erik commanding me during lessons with mere gestures of his hands, with a single word, with a look. His power over me had been intimidating at one time, and yet I had always yielded to that power, letting myself be steered by his guidance like a ship yearning for a captain. I had discovered a power of my own in many ways during these past few weeks and was learning – slowly – how to wield it wisely in kind, but all too often I still felt as though I were being carried along by an unstoppable tide. Erik and I were inexorably bound together, it seemed, no more able to drift apart than the clinging ivy on the chimney I had seen at the little house. Against my will I thought of his lips on my forehead once more, and felt a strange thrill in my belly. Was it so easy to become lost in a man that one could almost forget every unsettling thing about him, that even his appearance could begin to utterly cease to matter?

My steps slowed. _Was I in love with him?_

Oh, folly. Impossible. Unthinkable. And yet… _was_ it so preposterous, really, or were these merely vestiges of my old life weighing upon me, refusing to allow me to acknowledge my feelings as they were now?

But I firmly shut the door of my mind as tightly as a trap. _No time now. No time for that. Later –_ that word shuddered through my mind over and over like the relentless pounding of an ocean wave – _later, later, later_ , and with my stomach feeling like lead, I took my place among the players and waited for my cues.

* * *

All too soon and not soon enough, the entire performance was over, the audience having applauded Carlotta's Marguerite with not a small measure of enthusiasm, though perhaps not the overly thunderous sort either she or the managers might have wished. I was forced to admit that despite the fact that Erik was very fond of saying Carlotta had "long passed her prime," and in spite of her dreadful attitude during rehearsals, she was still a splendid singer in her own right and she utterly commanded the stage in a way that I envied. Up until this point I had still been a little shy in my movements, half-reticent and uncertain. But to-night I felt that I had at last begun to come into my own; I had disappeared into Siebel and poured every wayward emotion and stray thought into his earnest adoration and desperate protectiveness.

I shook hands and clasped arms with most of my fellow singers – though Carlotta notably avoided me like the plague – and was graced with not a few flatteries on how I had improved, how my countenance had shone and my voice sparkled. As I invariably did when confronted with praise of any sort, I ducked my head and mumbled thanks to the respective parties who paid me compliment. "So shy," I heard people around me say, "so modest," and my face flushed all the more. I finally happened to catch Carlotta's eye from across the throng, and she gave me a little sneer and a curt nod of her head. I quickly made my way back to my dressing-room and let out a long sigh of relief when I had shut and locked the door. I collapsed in exhaustion into the nearest chair, limp, overwhelmed, and a little irritated to boot.

"So shy," I mimicked, "so modest," and then I made a very rude noise with my tongue between my lips, and heard a chuckle behind me, from the mirror. I whipped around, but of course he was nowhere to be seen. "Oh, for heaven's _sake,_ " I said in exasperation, "are you made of wind, that you can move about this building so quickly?" and I heard his laugh ring out, that laugh which I heard so very rarely. It was a strangely beautiful sound, and my lips curved in spite of myself. "I haven't changed yet," I said, though I was sure he already knew this, given his most likely vantage point. "I refuse to go down to your house in breeches."

"I wouldn't allow it, in any case," his voice said. "I'll wait for you."

Pushing down my lingering annoyance that he had come to my dressing-room (or at least, just outside it) so soon and that I hadn't even the smallest bit of time to myself, I went behind the screen and wiggled out of my boy's-clothes. I laughed softly to myself as I had a swift, entirely capricious thought that perhaps I should have tried to shock him into leaving by taking off my costume in full view. _How bold and flippant you are becoming, Christine,_ I thought to myself, and shook out my hair from its pins.

When I had changed and come out from behind the screen, I opened the mirror and in he came. "Ah, Christine," he said, spreading his arms wide in a grand gesture, "what a night! How do you feel?"

"I received a great many compliments this evening on my Siebel," I said with an uncertain smile, "though I'm not entirely sure they were deserved."

"I am," he said adoringly. "You were passionately convincing, my dear. Siebel may seem a trifling role, but you brought him to life in a manner that I imagine would make Gounod himself very proud indeed. I am no longer the least bit concerned that you will not remain true to your art when I am…" He quickly cleared his throat. "When I am no longer here."

"Oh, don't talk about that," I said in alarm. "Please. Not now. I don't want to think of it now."

"No," he said, "no, of course not," and then he tilted his head ever so slightly. "Your hair," he said slowly, as though he were only just now noticing. "You've let it down."

"I…" My hand flew to my tresses, and then dropped. My cheeks warmed. It hadn't been entirely intentional, but I wondered now if perhaps he thought I had done it for him. Perhaps I had, for all that. "Yes."

His lips flashed apart for a moment; abruptly he turned about and said curtly, with his back to me, "Come."

A little knot formed in my stomach. I would not let him hide from me, could not let him withdraw into his silence again; I _had_ to draw him out, to at least try. "Have I done something wrong?" I asked softly.

I saw a barely perceptible shiver go up his back as he straightened, and the knot in my stomach loosened a little and grew warm. "No," he breathed, "no, of course you haven't, songbird; I'm afraid it's me."

"What do you mean?" I asked carefully, a little _zing_ of danger thrilling up my spine. Fearful territory, this; oh, he no doubt thought me fairly innocent indeed, but I had begun to realize certain things, to _notice_ , to become aware, and it was like waking after a very long sleep.

My hand reached out, trembling, but stopped just short of his back. My fingers hovered, tracing an outline in the air but not touching, and a deep, unexpectedly painful longing welled up in me so suddenly that I found it difficult to breathe. _What was happening to me?_

My hand dropped to my side when he spoke again. "I don't feel well," he said shortly.

"If you're not feeling well," I asked with a strange mix of brazenness and caution, "should I go to my flat instead, then?"

He stiffened, and there was a long silence. "If you wish," he replied.

I took a deep breath, making a split-second decision I hoped I would not regret. "Your hand," I said. "May I take it?"

After a moment he turned slightly and extended it, palm up. I slid my fingers over it as I took it in mine, and I saw his eyes flutter shut. "Chris-tine Daa-é," he said, slowly and crisply enunciating each syllable. "You have had a triumphant night indeed. But I suppose it's legally Christine Deschamps now, isn't it? I notice you haven't broken the news to anyone, if your maiden name printed on the programme is any indication – not to mention that little errand-girl."

I swallowed, feeling a momentary rise of panic. "I…that is…I didn't know yet if you wanted me to be public about it…you never said."

He chuckled. "You never asked, either. Oh, don't fret, it's quite all right, because at this juncture that would simply raise a terrible amount of questions, wouldn't it? People might grow curious, might start watching you more closely; they even might discover where you go sometimes, and then where would we be? No, I suppose if you wish to tell anyone you have married, it ought to be directly before we leave for the country. Besides…Daaé is ever so more interesting a name than Deschamps, don't you agree? I suppose if anything it ought to remain your stage name. The public simply adores a seemingly unattached soprano. I imagine it rather excites them."

Unsure how to reply to any of this, I asked uncomfortably, "Shall we go?"

"Yes, yes, of course," he said, his voice still carrying that strange tone it always did whenever he was wont to ramble on about something. His palm had been shockingly warm when I touched it first, but it was cooling now; I felt a flash of disappointment, followed by a tinge of relief. If I thought I had been torn in half when I had been considering the marriage during what seemed like a lifetime ago now, it was an absolute trifle compared to the slew of battling emotions I had been feeling all evening.

He chatted aimlessly to me as we made our way down, about a dozen different things – had I seen Carlotta nearly trip over a carelessly placed prop in the second act? Hadn't the chorus been rather surprisingly good during the scene where Marguerite met Faust? – and so on. His hand held mine in a strangely tight grip, as though he were afraid I might slip away from him at any moment; my fingers began to feel bloodless in his, and I twisted my hand a little to relieve the pressure. To my somewhat surprise, he didn't appear to notice, and I was a shade nervous about voicing my displeasure, not wanting to inadvertently send him hurtling into another black mood. I was entirely too grateful to reach the little dock underground, at which point, in order to take us across, he was forced by necessity to let go of my hand.

We had not taken this particular way in a very long time; Erik had a dozen different entrances to his home, some of which I had never personally witnessed or taken myself. To my knowledge, at least, this was by far the most theatrical. He was like Charon, taking us across the river Styx to the afterlife beyond. It was the same method by which I had been taken to his home for the first time, and the parallel was eerie. I knew him so well now, knew that his imposing frame could also be stooped in pain and stiffened by surprise, knew that his voice held not some otherworldly magic but a kind of learned hypnotic persuasion, knew that he was a man, only a man, and not something entirely beyond my ken. Still, it was at times difficult to remember this in the glimmering shadow-light of the lake, and though I was no longer the girl I had been an eternity ago, some of the old feelings resurfaced, the feeling of being spirited to a different world.

The corner of my mouth turned up a little. I remembered playing as a child at being captured by the troll-king and being forced to become his bride; I would never have imagined that life could even faintly imitate the things I had once loved to fear. Then again in my games of pretend I had never gone willingly into the dark; I had played at escaping more than anything else.

What a strange thing my life had become of late – living in the light and embracing shadows, almost a half-life, composed of bits and pieces of one world and another. Was I truly losing myself in Erik? Was I being absorbed by his madness? Like a gangly, graceful spider, he had caught me in his web, though he had promised not to devour me.

What a disturbing thought took hold of me then – did I _want_ to be devoured? I didn't know what I wanted anymore, didn't know if I could continue down this dangerous path. Showing him more than scraps of affection was fraught with unforeseeable consquences; I wanted to help him, to care for him, but it seemed such unpredictable folly. I never knew anymore if he would gladly accept affection or rudely turn it away, and I was so afraid of the latter that I wondered if it was truly worth the effort. He _had_ been very genial and warm earlier this evening, had gently and familiarly touched me of his own accord and had seemed to thoroughly enjoy being touched in turn, but after the performance, the steel wall surrounding him had crashed down yet again – like a medieval portcullis from the old European castles of which he had once shown me pictures.

It made me almost angry, this uncertainty and inconsistency – I wanted to understand him, wanted so badly to tear down the hardness surrounding his heart so that I might find that tenderness which I had joyed to witness on more than one occasion. But was it an impossible task? And might I, in the course of attempting to go about it, damage him irreparably?

 _He is already damaged,_ I abruptly realized then, _damaged so much he might never be able to recover. I must be cautious, but there can be little harm in showing him as much kindness as I can, while being careful to guard my own heart._

We disembarked; he aloofly helped me out of the boat and this time he touched me gingerly, as though I were made of glass.

"I have…a request," he said in a low voice, when we had entered the house and he had shut the door behind us.

"Name it," I said, a little shiver going up my spine.

He took a breath, and then hesitantly said, "I want you to sing for me, Christine. Anything you like."

"Are we to have a lesson this late?" I asked incredulously, and he shook his head. "No, you misunderstand me, _ma ch_ _é_ _re_ ," he said with unsettling fervency. "I want you to _sing._ Sing for me. Anything. I don't care what. But do it for _me_ , for your husband."

"I…" I was a little taken aback at this. I wasn't sure what he wanted from me. "I don't understand."

"You were so splendid to-night," he said, his eyes alive with a strange light. "I watched as you shared the gift of your voice with an entire theatre of people, with so much of the Paris elite…but now _I_ want that gift. I want you to bestow it upon _me_ at this moment, me alone."

Goose-flesh was rising on my arms, and I felt a kind of fearful exhilaration. "What shall I sing?" I whispered.

"I told you," he said, throwing one arm wide, "anything. I don't care, as long as you do it. But do it with the same sort of fervor you did earlier, do you understand? _Throw_ yourself into it the way you did onstage this evening – become swallowed up in it. Give me the gift of your emotion through song." He paused. "Please." The _please_ seemed very much like an afterthought, but it was strangely timid.

I couldn't think of what to sing at first, but after a moment I drew from my memory and began to sing an old song from my homeland in my native tongue, about a woman who is searching for her lover lost in a war. But it was difficult for me to lose myself in the song when his gaze pierced me so intently; at least onstage there was no one person upon which to focus, and they all blurred together into a massive sea. Did he realize how different this was, how much more intimate and confusing? Perhaps he did, and perhaps that was why he had asked it of me. I closed my eyes to block out the sight of him, and then I hesitantly began to let the melody take me over. I thought perhaps he wanted me to bare my soul to him through song, and part of me desperately wanted to, but I was afraid to expose myself so clearly, afraid to let him see the convoluted emotions warring in my breast.

But then I opened my eyes for a moment; I saw his gaze glowing at me with unconcealed passion, and suddenly everything I had held prisoner deep within me came spilling out in a torrent of feeling. My voice swelled, burgeoning out from my body and lending me a kind of overwhelming ardor of which I hadn't known myself capable before this. It was frightening; it was intoxicating.

As the last notes of my song died away, Erik's eyes locked with mine and he let out a heavy breath as though he had been winded. He slowly dropped to his knees. "Oh," he breathed reverently, "thank you, Christine, _thank you_."

I didn't know what to say, pinned beneath his worshipful gaze. He remained in this position for a few moments longer and then he stood, and stepped forward. Aside from a flash of worry over how painful it had looked for him to get to his feet, his sudden nearness made my heart skip a beat.

He lifted shaking hands to my face, cradling it lightly as he might a very fragile thing. When I said nothing and did not move away, he inhaled as though drawing courage, and brushed his lips over my forehead once more. I grasped his coat, curled my fingers around his lapels, and held him to me.

"Oh, Christine," he said in a shuddering whisper. " _My_ Christine. Beautiful, talented, compassionate Christine. Have you any idea what you do to me, my love?"

 _Some,_ I thought, but didn't dare say it aloud. He began to draw back, but I gripped the lapels of his coat and shook my head fiercely.

"Stay," I whispered, "stay with me," and I laid my head on his angular chest, feeling the wild pump of his heart beneath my cheek, feeling the increased rate of his breathing. I smoothed his coat with my fingers and I felt him tremble.

"Sweeting," he murmured, "what on earth has come over you?"

"I don't know," I mumbled, "but I don't want it to end."

I heard him audibly inhale. "I think," he said shakily, "perhaps we should sit," and I tilted my head up to look at him, no longer unsettled by the closeness of his mouth. "Why?"

"Because I think my knees might start knocking together in a moment," he said dryly, and gently placed his hands over my hands, removing them from his coat. He led me to the little sofa in the sitting-room, and hesitated for a moment. "If you think it's entirely proper," he said, and I stifled a laugh. "I don't mind," I said, and sat a little awkwardly. After a moment, he lowered himself to sit beside me as well, his body language stiff and uncertain. I felt warm, dizzy; I felt as though some sort of threshold had been crossed although I wasn't entirely certain of what that was.

Erik's hands fidgeted, and I gently took them in mine. He flinched, but allowed my touch. "I don't know what to do now," he said, and I gave him an uncertain little smile. "I don't either," I admitted, and he regarded my hands, turned them over in his almost thoughtfully. "You will promise to stop me if I do anything out of my place," he said, and I uneasily replied, "Of course."

Before I could react, his breath was on my palm, followed shortly thereafter by a slow, tender kiss on my upturned wrist. I inhaled sharply, and he looked at me at once. "Tell me," he said in a voice I hadn't heard often – businesslike and commanding like the Teacher, but something different in the tone. It was a much more curious voice. "Tell me why you did that. Was it good or bad?"

 _Erik the Scientist, perhaps,_ I thought with a faint trace of amusement, although I was taken aback by this sudden turn of events. "I…well…it was…good," I said with some difficulty, heat rising in my face.

A small smile split his face – at least, what little of it I could see – and he placed a similar kiss upon my other wrist. I shivered, and his eyes flicked up to meet mine. "Tell me about that, too," he demanded, and I managed to squeak out, "Good."

He made a satisfied hum in his throat, and then lifted my fingers palm-up against his lips, lightly kissing the tip of each one. His eyes were closed for a few moments, but then they opened and looked straight into mine. "Your pupils are dilating," he said in a sonorous, vaguely predatory voice which made my stomach do a funny little tilt. "That is…interesting."

My breath was coming in little spasms. "Erik…I…" It was becoming so difficult to speak; never in my darkest dreams would I have imagined any of this happening only weeks ago, even _days_ ago. I was frightened, and yet I wasn't; I didn't know what I wanted, how I ought to act.

He appeared to notice my strange inner struggle, for he lowered my hand from his mouth at once, though he did not let go of it. "Have I overstepped my bounds?" he asked in a low, gentle voice; his tone seemed to indicate that he knew perfectly well he hadn't done anything of the sort, but was asking as a formality to make sure of it.

I shook my head. "No," I managed. "Not exactly."

He tilted his head, his eyes darkening. "Explain."

There was that clipped, _scientific_ tone again, filled to the brim with a kind of odd detachment – _it's his defense, no doubt,_ I thought, _part of the ever-present wall surrounding his heart –_ and I swallowed. "I…I don't know quite how to…" I closed my eyes for a moment. He said nothing, waiting patiently. I opened my eyes again. "I'm not entirely sure how to put it into words, you see. It – these feelings – they are…quite confusing."

" _What_ feelings?" he asked, his grip on my hand tightening ever so slightly. I felt his hand tremble.

"Erik…I think…" Oh, god, I couldn't say it aloud yet, not now, not when I had only just begun to sort it out in my own mind. I bit my lip. His eyes flicked down to where my teeth gnawed softly at it, and drew in a breath. "Careful, temptress," he said softly, and a swift rush of heat flooded my abdomen, tingling and pooling a bit farther down.

"I…" I wanted _something_ to happen, but not everything. Not yet. I wasn't ready for everything. And I was afraid that if I did not tread carefully, all that I was as yet unprepared to do would be thrust upon me.

A thought trickled into my mind then…he had wanted normalcy, hadn't he? Perhaps this would satisfy him somewhat.

"I want you to court me." The words came out of my mouth before I had a chance to think too long upon them, and there was a beat of silence in the air before his eyes widened a little.

"Court you." The words sounded strange on his tongue, alien and foreign.

"I know it sounds rather odd, given the fact that we're already…but it sometimes seems that too much is happening, or not enough, and I think perhaps if we…" I struggled with what I was trying to say. I drew a deep breath, found the courage to meet his staring eyes and say what had to be said. "Erik, I am…I am growing to care for you, far more than I did when this started, and there are…things that I want, but there are things I'm not quite ready for, and all this strange back-and-forth, like the pitch and yaw of a ship…it's driving me mad, Erik. It feels that you're not sure yourself what you want or don't want from day-to-day, and I feel that we _must_ find a kind of gradual rhythm together, or we'll both be quite miserable." I breathed heavily after this speech, embarrassed to have exposed so much and certain I hadn't made the faintest bit of sense.

He inclined his head ever so slightly. "Say it again," he breathed, and I blinked. "What?" I asked, and he closed his eyes. "That you care for me," he whispered, and I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. "I care for you," I murmured, in one fell swoop loosening the bands wrapped tightly around my own heart. "More and more every day."

His breath shuddered, and in one swift movement he buried his masked face in my neck. One of his hands tangled in my hair; his other arm tightly encircled my waist. Never had he held me thus, and I was so shocked for a moment that my limbs refused to stir – but stir they eventually did, and I fiercely wrapped my arms about him in turn as I had been secretly longing to do for what seemed an age.

"Erik," I whispered, feeling as though my heart had been painfully pierced with joy and sorrow all at once, and then unbidden came the words, " _My_ Erik." His shoulders heaved, and I held him as he alternately whispered and sobbed things into my skin, words of love mixed with old pain and tears. He clutched at me like a drowning man, and we held each other in this way for a very long time after that – nothing more, and nothing less.

It was enough.


	10. Chapter X - Fedrottning

**A/N: My apologies that this chapter is a little on the shorter side and that it wasn't the double update I'd originally planned. The next chapter will be here soon! Thanks for your patience and as always, a million thanks to those who leave reviews.**

* * *

My eyes opened sleepily, my limbs and neck aching from the uncomfortable position in which I was curled. _Why is my pillow so hard?_ I wondered in a groggy daze, and then my eyes took in the gas lighting of the sitting-room and saw beneath my right hand the fabric of the sofa. Not my bed at all.

And then to my left there suddenly swam into view a pair of impossibly long legs in trousers sprawled out in front; I noticed the silken waist-coat beneath my cheek and felt sharp angles and the steady rhythm of his breathing. A swift rush of memory overtook me, and I realized that we had held each other so long that sleep had overtaken me, and must have done him as well. I had never fallen asleep on a man before, and the realization gave me a little flash of pleasure – although I was forced to admit that I had always pictured this sort of thing as being far more comfortable than it was. Perhaps it would have been, had Erik possessed more padding on his frame.

Still, despite my physical discomfort, I was somewhat loathe to extricate myself from the tender position in which we had found ourselves. His hand rested on my hair, the other flung over the arm of the sofa; his body lacked the twitching energy to which I had grown so accustomed. I had never known him to be so entirely at peace in my presence. _I_ had never felt so relaxed in _his_ presence prior to this.

I inclined my head ever so slightly to look at him, trying not to move very much, but his eyes opened almost immediately the moment I stirred.

I wasn't overly surprised. He had told me once that he was an extremely light sleeper as a consequence of spending much of his younger days on the road; it was a natural defense against the danger of sleeping in the open.

He blinked, and his eyes slowly traveled down to meet mine. I felt a slow blush creep up into my face.

"I didn't mean to wake you," I said in a small voice.

His fingers atop my hair flexed ever so slightly, and then slowly wove themselves through the strands. "So I didn't dream it," he said, his voice resonating through my very center.

"Dream what?" I asked, simply because I wanted to hear his answer.

"This," he said, and then vaguely gestured at me. "You."

I wasn't certain of what to say. My face felt uncomfortably warm, but it carried with it a certain amount of tingling gratification. His fingers continued meandering through my hair, deliciously cool against my scalp.

I didn't want to move, but I had to; my neck and shoulders were beginning to feel cramped beyond endurance. I straightened, pushing up from the sofa with my hand. His fingers lifted from my hair in a sudden, guilty movement, like the toss of a horse's head when it's been spooked.

"Oh," I said, "oh, I didn't mean…I was simply…oh, dear." I couldn't seem to speak properly, my words trapped in a mire of embarrassment and timidity. This was all so new, this latest development – this strange limbo we had found ourselves in between comfortable and careful – and I wasn't the least bit certain of how to proceed. After a moment, I shyly scooted closer to him so that I was nestled against his side, albeit upright this time. He flinched and drew in a breath, but otherwise didn't move.

His hand slowly, ever so slowly descended and came back to my hair again, sliding over it in light, careful strokes. "This is…this is quite all right?" he asked with some faint bemusement. I nodded once, and my eyes closed. "Yes."

His fingers slid deeper into my hair, and I let out an involuntary little sigh of pleasure.

He paused in his movements for a moment. "Do you…enjoy it?" he asked, his tone laced with both hope and incredulity, and a small smile played upon my lips. "Yes," I whispered.

There was a long silence. "Why?" he asked, his voice somewhat baffled.

"Oh, Erik," I mumbled, heat coming up in my face, "I don't know how I ought to answer that. Can it not be enough that I do enjoy it?"

He made a dissatisfied little noise in his throat, but didn't press the matter.

I tentatively placed my hand on the breast of his waist-coat, wanting to feel his heart beneath my hand again. I felt him shiver underneath me, and his other hand – the one that was not currently enmeshed in my hair – covered mine atop his angular chest, which not even several layers could have disguised. He must have removed his coat sometime during the night, I suddenly realized, and I had never been this close to him without it. It was a deeper layer of intimacy, a thin barrier shed. The cool pressure of his hands, one atop my own and one buried in my hair, sent a warm little tingle up my spine, and goose-flesh began making the little hairs on my arms stand up.

"I feel I ought to warn you," he mumbled into my hair, his mouth barely brushing the top of my head, "of the very great danger you are in, Mlle. Daaé."

I didn't bother to correct him on the name, and perhaps he had done it on purpose for all that – somehow it added to the deliciously errant nature of the situation. My fingers curled into his waist-coat. "And just what danger is that?" I murmured rather coquettishly. A soft growl rumbled in his throat, and his hand left mine and went under my chin, turning my face up to his. My pulse pounded beneath his fingers.

"You are in danger," he whispered, his voice steady though his hand shook, "of being kissed… _quite_ against anyone's better judgment, I am sure."

"What is it to me?" I asked flippantly, though it felt as though a hundred butterflies had been loosed in my stomach. "You've kissed me before. On my hand, my forehead –"

"Oh, I do not speak of _those_ kisses," he said, his voice hungry and reckless, and despite the fierce, swift slice of pleasure which overtook me at these astoundingly bold words, there was panic too, inexplicable panic which I had thought I'd overcome. I shifted backward, only a little, the barest perceptible flinch. A less perceptive man might not have given it a second thought, but nothing of this sort ever appeared to escape Erik's notice.

The all-too-eager glow in his eyes faded; his hand dropped from my chin as though it had been burnt. The other hand gathered a light fistful of my hair for just a moment, and then it too released me and retreated back to his side.

I blinked. "I didn't…ah, I didn't mean…that is, I…"

He shook his head, his eyes entirely devoid of the deep emotion which had smoldered there only moments earlier. "Spare me your hollow kindnesses, please," he said flatly. "I know what I am. I know what you must think of me. I beg your forgiveness for forgetting myself." He rose – almost too swiftly, it seemed, for I saw him wince – and amidst my awkward, incomplete protests, he stalked off in the direction of his room.

"Erik," I said, following him, desperate to make it right, "Erik, _please_."

He stopped halfway through his bedroom doorway, the door partially ajar; his hand slid from the knob and went limply to his side. His back remained to me, and he hardly moved. "There is _nothing_ I can do," he said, his voice low and entirely defeated. "No matter what miniscule sparks of some half-formed, nebulous desire that sometimes appear in your eyes, that I try to summon or conjure up like some amateur magician – the horror will always be there lurking beneath, the horror and the pity and the innate, inescapable revulsion. No grand romantic gestures or acts of kindness or words of love on my part will change that. I know it. I'm not a fool. But I suppose I had allowed myself, for a blissful few moments, to hope that you could perhaps forget it…at least temporarily. Forgive me. It was a supremely arrogant and unfounded assumption, particularly given your request last night for more… restraint."

"It _wasn't_ unfounded – " I began, my fingers reaching out instinctively and brushing his shirt-sleeve, and he shied violently away from me as though I were the very devil. "Don't touch me," he hissed between his teeth, his breath heaving. "Not now. Not right at this moment. I _can't_."

I tried – valiantly – not to be hurt by this, but it was no use. Tears stung at my eyes, and I slowly backed away. I had unwittingly hurt him, too, on the sofa; I knew this, but it was torment that he would not allow me to right it, that he took no care for my own feelings in kind. We had made so much progress and yet still had managed to take several steps back all in the time it took to blink my eyes, and it was maddening. Would we _always_ continue to hurt each other like this, to push and pull and prick at each other in this unthinking manner right up until his ever-looming death? I couldn't bear it. I didn't want to think, didn't want to feel.

I turned and fled to my room, my cheeks burning. I didn't bother to lock the door; in my haste and humiliation I never even thought of it.

I did, however, pick up the beautiful silver-backed hand mirror he had gifted to me months ago – and in a moment of horrifying fury that I would shortly come to regret, I threw it into a hundred shattering little pieces against the wall.

* * *

Two hours passed; I only knew because there was a smart little mantel-clock which nearly matched the now-broken mirror in style – everything Erik bought for me seemed to have a purpose, an overarching theme. I hadn't yet tried to clean the mess on the floor. If I had tried to pick up the broken pieces with my hands, I should almost certainly have cut myself, and fetching a broom and dust-pan would have required me to leave my room – which, at this juncture, I had no desire to do.

I lay on my side, limp and unmoving in my bed atop the coverlet, staring at the inexorably ticking hands on the timepiece; vaguely I remembered that there was another performance to-night, still several hours away, but I decided that perhaps I wouldn't go. Perhaps this was the end of my career, and good riddance, too. They could easily find another Siebel.

At length, I heard a faint knocking on my door. I raised my head, but didn't answer.

The knocking continued, without a whisper of reply from me, and then I heard his voice say "Christine."

I slowly got out of bed and stepped gingerly over the broken glass. I opened the door a crack.

"May I speak with you?" he asked, and I opened the door a little farther. His eyes flicked over the glass on the floor and traveled swiftly back to me. My face flushed.

"I'll clean it up," I said. "It was…a weak moment."

He didn't say anything. I sighed, pushed lightly past him and went to the little closet in the kitchen, where I grabbed the broom and dust-pan. He tried to take them from me when I went back to my room. "Let me," he said, and I shook my head. "I made this mess; it's only fair I should be the one to right it."

"I've never known you to break anything – in anger or otherwise," he remarked, sounding mildly nonplussed.

"But _you_ have," I replied as I swept up the pieces, "broken things, I mean," and I saw him flinch. My shoulders slumped a little. "Forgive me," I said. "That was uncalled for."

"No," he said, "you're right. My own life has been full of 'weak moments,' as you call them – and I have, in fact, broken more mirrors than you would ever care to know."

My eyes flashed over to him but I turned my face away so that he wouldn't see my expression – for it was one of sorrowful pity, and I knew all too keenly how he felt about that.

I composed myself and handed him the dust-pan, full of clattering bits of broken glass. "If you could dispose of these shards," I said, "I'll roll up the rugs so they can be taken out to beat."

"Be careful," he said, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. But as he walked away with the dust-pan in hand and I began to take care of the rugs, I accidentally came upon a sliver of glass which embedded itself in the tip of my finger. I cried out in an alarmed moment of pain, and heard Erik's quick footsteps as he rushed back to the doorway.

"Christine," he said, his eyes wide, and then he saw my finger, and he relaxed a little. "At least you didn't slice your hand," he said thankfully, and gently pulled me to my feet, all business as he examined my finger.

"Come with me," he said, and led me into his room. He looked a bit winded from the exertion of hurrying back to me, and I opened my mouth to say something, but he spoke first.

"Wait here," he said, adding, "Don't try to pull it out just yet," and disappeared behind another door which I assumed to be his own bath-room. I stood in the middle of the floor, clutching my hand and wondering why it felt so different to be in his bedroom when we weren't having lessons.

How had I never really _noticed_ this room? The red and black hangings, the plushness of the carpets spread over the floors, the strangely austere furniture and the relaxed chaos – it was like an outward expression of the man himself, sharpness and softness, creativity and restraint. Perhaps I had never truly allowed myself to notice it. It was like being _within_ him for a moment, and my face flushed a little at that.

Erik came out with a thin roll of bandages from which he cut a strip with a pen-knife, and I forced myself to gather my strangely sordid thoughts and store them away. "If I may," he said with oddly stiff politeness, and I held out my hand. He nonchalantly plucked the sliver of glass from my finger with unsurprising deftness and tossed it into a nearby waste-basket, then quickly wound the small bandage around my finger as blood began to ooze from the wound. "I don't foresee it being infected," he said, "as it's not a very remarkable injury and it was only a very little piece of glass. Still, treat it gently and let me know if it becomes inflamed."

"Thank you," I said, my cheeks still warm for reasons I couldn't explain, and his eyes met mine, softening as they looked at me.

"I apologize," he said, "for…earlier."

"As do I," I replied quietly. A little lump formed in my throat, and I took a very small step closer to him. "Are you all right?" I asked. "I noticed you seemed a trifle overexerted just a moment ago."

"Christine, don't fuss," he said, but his half-hearted admonition had no teeth, and fell softly on my ears. He still held my hand in his, and looked down at my bandaged finger. "One token," he said, "before I take you up above to prepare for the performance to-night," and he pressed a gentle kiss to my swathed fingertip.

A little quiver ran through me; I wanted more, but I didn't know how to ask for it.

"To-morrow is Sunday," he said, his hand warming a little around mine. "Will you do me the honor of accompanying me on a stroll?"

"Of course," I said, my eyes suddenly settling on his mouth of their own accord. He had very nearly claimed my lips, not very long before this; I realized that despite my lingering reticence, had he pressed forward I would have allowed him to do so without any complaint. A slow heat bloomed in my chest.

"I've been a terrible beast," he said, "and I mean to remedy that in short order. You asked me to court you, and instead I behaved in a very ungentlemanly fashion this morning indeed."

My cheeks flushed. "I suppose it didn't help," I mumbled, "that I didn't tell you to stop." My eyes lowered, then flicked back up to his again. I felt a little faint. _When had I become so brazen?_

His lips parted ever so slightly. "How do you say 'fairy queen' in your native tongue?" he asked me abruptly, and I raised an eyebrow. " _Fedrottning,_ " I said, the word lilting easily from my tongue. "Why?"

"Because you are a beautiful, oddly capricious little thing, like the fae people in so many superstitious tales," he said, releasing my hand, and before I could bristle at being termed _capricious,_ he then tried out the word on his own tongue. " _Fedrottning._ " He neglected to roll the _r_ closer to the front of his mouth and instead said the letter in the back of his throat in the habitual manner of the French.

"At least pronounce it correctly," I said, unable to suppress my blush or my amused smile, and then pronounced it again for him. I suddenly wondered then, given Erik's uncanny predilection for imitation, if he had in fact _purposefully_ mispronounced the word to make me feel more at ease.

One corner of his mouth tilted up slightly. "I imagine, if you were so inclined, you could teach me a great many words and how to pronounce them," he said. "Perhaps when we move to the little house…"

I nodded, a little uncertain but also pleased. "If you'd like."

"I would."

I lightly bit down on my lower lip, pondering our situation, and then, remembering his earlier reaction, quickly released it from between my teeth. "Will I stay here to-night, or would you rather I go to my flat?"

He regarded me with a very peculiar expression indeed, and then slowly shrugged. "It matters little to me – your time is your own. But perhaps it would be best," he said in a measured voice, "if you were to stay in your flat to-night. I can fetch you for our walk at an agreed-upon time – perhaps in the morning, if…if you would be amenable."

"Yes," I said shyly, finding to my somewhat surprise that I was rather intrigued by this new development, this grown-up game of pretend we had decided upon – for it _was_ a sort of game, wasn't it, playing at being ordinary, playing at not being married, almost as though we were starting over at the beginning? I wondered if he would put on yet another role for himself in this benevolent charade…Erik the Suitor. Coming to call at my flat in the morning. Now _there_ was an oddly amusing thought, and yet it was not at all unpleasant.

"Well, then, shall we say ten-o'clock?" he asked me, with that strange, false cheerfulness in his voice that he used when he spoke to other people; I bristled under it, but I supposed it was all part of this new dynamic I had practically insisted upon. _And I suppose,_ I thought to myself, _in the course of all this I may be able to slowly tear down those iron walls. To make him trust me._

That was a strange thought – he was fighting so hard for my trust, and yet all I could think of was earning his, although I doubted he knew it.

And then another thought struck me like a lightning-bolt; perhaps I didn't need to _tear down_ the walls; perhaps I merely needed to be invited inside.

I swallowed. "Ten-o'clock would be fine," I said calmly, a vague little tremor flitting through my voice. And then I decided to really play the game, and I curtsied low, reveling in his stupefied expression. "I look forward to it, M. Deschamps."

There was a brief beat of silence, and then he laughed, truly laughed for the second time that evening. I closed my eyes for a split second, letting the sound wash over me, a wave of unexpected happiness tinged with flecks of sparkling gold.


	11. Chapter XI - The Weed and the Marigold

**A/N: It's just barely come to my attention that strikethrough text (text with a line through it) is unable to be formatted in documents uploaded to the site. Sooo, for an upcoming scene in which there is SUPPOSED to be strikethrough text (they're crossed-out words in a note), I've underlined it instead. Not remotely the same effect (which is really disappointing), but I'm sure you'll get the idea at least.**

 **Thanks for your patience, my dears! This is a long chapter, so buckle up!**

* * *

The performance that evening was even better than my last, for no longer was my Siebel quite so tormented in the midst of his love, but full of life, alive with hope. I channeled so much of this into Siebel's words, my face glowing with the memory of Erik's laugh upon my ear, his lips upon my hand. I knew he watched me, though I could see no outline or even a shadow in Box Five; I could feel his presence, his delight, like the ghostly whisper of fingers against my skin.

Oh, what a confusing, alarming, yet strangely enticing day this had been! When the performance was over, and after everyone had congratulated the principal players on their own splendid performances, my acquaintances gathered about me in a throng, shaking my hands and clapping me lightly on the back. "She's a growing credit to our opera house, is Mlle. Daaé," I heard one man say, and the rest joined in a little cheer. I thanked them through my blushes, and then Carlotta appeared in front of me, silent and imposing. She was a tall woman, amply figured and ever defiant in posture, her eyes flashing. I stiffened, ready for anything, but she took my chin firmly in her fingers and tipped it up so that I looked directly in her eyes. "Yes, you did very well to-night indeed, _Svedesa,_ " she said, the Italian word for Swede, and amidst her defiance, there was pride. When she dropped her fingers from my face, I flushed a little and modestly bowed my head. "High praise, _Signora,_ and I thank you for it," I said, glancing back up at her and measuring my words carefully. _Is she toying with me? She has never paid me compliment before. Not once!_ "Though I am certain everyone would agree with me that _your_ star shone brightest."

She tossed her head. "Ha!" she barked. "You are learning to play the game of words and flattery; it is somewhat admirable. But I mean this sincerely. I do not know who your teacher is, but they must be very good to have brought out such a spark in that voice, such newly discovered confidence in that formerly shrinking little frame. Or perhaps," and her eyes twinkled quite unexpectedly, "it is a lover, eh? No, no, do not tell me – we women must keep our little secrets. You will keep up with your practice, yes? You will be a very fine singer, little Daaé." Ignoring my astonished blush, she swept into the throng herself, greeting her devoted _claque_ and showering them with the attention they craved. I slipped away to my dressing-room, sinking to the floor once I had shut and locked the door.

 _A lover. Does it so plainly show upon my face? Does she or anyone else suspect that my teacher and my "lover", such as he is, are one and the same?_

It made my head spin. _Erik. My lover. Why does that not sound so terrible or preposterous as it did only days ago?_

I spied a note upon my dressing-table which had not been there before the performance, and I rose to my feet with a sigh. I wondered if he watched me, even now, silent behind the mirror, and hoped that he didn't. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.

I fingered the paper, the familiar weight of it in my hand – Erik always used good paper, not the cheap sort – and slowly, silently read the spidery handwriting. A few things in the letter had been hastily scratched out, as though he had thought better of it as he wrote, but I was able to carefully discern these through the messy lines of red ink regardless.

 _My dearest Christine,_

 _I cannot begin to express how brilliantly you shone onstage to-night. You will make a name for yourself very soon; I again hope that our sojourn in the country will not harm your career. Think on it, and tell me what you decide. We might perhaps travel to the house only on week-ends, or perhaps we might holiday there every month for a week at a time, and tell the managers you are resting your voice. I would be loathe to inadvertently crush this legacy merely so that I can have you all to myself for a few months at one stretch._ _Though it is an attractive prospect._

 _I am vastly content in knowing that you will be quite independent when I am gone. I know you do not like to speak of it, that it makes you sorrowful, and perhaps I should tell you that this is of no small wonder to me. No-one has ever sorrowed over me before, not like this, and perhaps it is quite wicked of me indeed to feel somewhat gratified – to feel cared for. Am I wicked, Christine? I don't mean to be._

 _Forgive the ramblings of an old man. Rest well to-night; I shall hire a cab to-morrow and meet you at your flat precisely at ten. I have the address you gave me._

 _With love, _

_Sincerely,_

 _E._

I closed my eyes, refusing to allow myself the luxury of tears, and set the paper on the dressing-table. I changed swiftly behind the screen, and when I came out, I folded up the note and slipped it into my bodice, next to my heart.

* * *

I had some difficulty sleeping, and was awake and arisen in my bed at home long before my usual time.

I did not have Erik's skill in the kitchen, and I had no maid at present – after Mama's death, I had sent our maid Emilie on her way with an excellent reference, knowing I could not afford to keep her on, nor did I have any particular need for her now that I did not require anyone to look after Mama.

My stomach was aflutter and my appetite was small; I breakfasted on a little buttered bread and not much else. I played a bit on Mama's worn little pianoforte, practicing old skills which had long been unused – I was pleased to realize that I still remembered a few songs from years ago. Mama Valerius had taught me how to play on this very piano (for like her husband, she was also possessed of some musical skill), and many a happy time I'd had beside her on the bench. _Perhaps Erik might have this moved to the house,_ I thought, _so I can play freely when we are there. He does not know I can play; how I would surprise him!_

I wondered, however, whether or not this might in fact result in a sudden bout of firm criticism and instruction, if all my fun might be spoiled by the sudden appearance of Erik the Teacher. He would tell me how to hold my fingers properly, no doubt, perhaps even show me himself – and then, quite apart from the disagreeable prospect of being callously instructed in the finer methods of playing my own pianoforte, the sudden image of his long fingers on the keys beside mine inexplicably gave me a warm, full-bodied shiver.

I found my old instruction books and boredly played a few childish melodies to re-acclimate my fingers to the feel of the piano beneath them; _how_ had it been so long since I had played? It was as though I had been away from it for a hundred years, and yet it was also as though I had never left. My fingers remembered quickly how to lightly, deftly curl atop the keys, and never to lie flat – they remembered this song, and that, and a long-forgotten joy began to bubble up within me as I reacquainted myself with my old friend of polished wood and ivory. It seemed such a long time since it had been uncovered from beneath the sheet keeping away the dust; Mama had preferred my voice to anything else musical in her later years, and much of my practice and my time had been taken up for so long by studies at the Conservatoire until I had finally joined the throng of eager new-bloods at the Garnier.

Oh, how proud of me she had been, how very proud and very full of life indeed! It was only last year that her mind had begun to slip – little things, at first, like forgetting where she had put her hair-brush only moments ago, occasionally forgetting to stir the milk on the stove and letting it curdle and burn away. Near the end she could not be trusted to go outside or even do the simplest of tasks herself, so unpredictable was the state of her lucidity. Many was the time I had considered abandoning my slowly blossoming career at the Opera to look after her myself, but a great many little influences had convinced me to stay.

The maid, Emilie, had been very kind and thoughtful, and Mama had enjoyed having her at the flat to keep her company and to make sure all the cleaning and cooking was done when I was at rehearsals during the day. The scant few nights I had spent in Erik's home during this time had been rather devilishly difficult to account for, but I explained them away by saying that I was occasionally staying at the residence of a friend with whom I could practice my music. I had meant for this to be taken to mean a female friend, but I knew Emilie had suspected it was a man; to her credit, she had never voiced any overt disdain for this occasional arrangement nor required any further explanations, and for my part I had made sure that Erik knew I could not often be away from home.

On Mama's more lucid days, whenever I had happened to bring up the idea of leaving the Opera, she had reminded me of how well Emilie cared for her and had refused to hear of me giving up my career. "And what will you have when I'm gone from this earth, then?" she'd said. "What will you do? Work in a laundry, or pluck and skin animals at the butcher's? Work in the factories? Pah! I'll not think of my girl with the golden throat working her hands raw to the bone with manual labor when she could make a perfectly good life for herself with the instrument God gave her – _that voice, my child, is your gateway to a better world._ "

It was after her death and Emilie's dismissal that my visits to Erik's home had increased; I desperately wanted the company, the comfort that music provided. In those days he was indeed teacher and taskmaster and – sometimes – friend, and I had clung to that security and structure, even in the midst of the distaste and confusion which had plagued me for so long since learning his true nature. I had always suspected – even before he revealed himself – that at the other end of the Voice lay a man, but Erik had always possessed an uncanny way of winding truth and lies together so that one could hardly tell where one began and the other ended.

He had caught me up entirely in those blissful early days when I had heard him first. I had dreadfully missed my father, and the thought that perhaps the Voice _was_ some sign from beyond death, the _Musikens Ängel_ my Papa had promised so foolishly to send me before he died…in the way of strange things that people irrationally want to believe in the midst of their grief, this had been my sustenance. It had been years since my father's death when Erik began coming to me as the Voice, but that grief had still plucked at me then and did so even now, oftimes with a terrible sharpness that made it feel as though I had lost Papa only yesterday. Erik had preyed upon that grief, albeit perhaps inadvertently; I saw him now through a much different lens than I had at the moment of cold, gut-wrenching clarity when I had truly realized his deception.

I had thought him cold and selfish, and he undeniably had been, but now I saw as though from a great distance how someone desperate for kinship – as I thought he must have been – could find themselves saying irresponsible things on a whim to catch a person's attention; I imagined Erik falling headlong into his own deception as it grew almost too large to contain. I did not in the least excuse it – though I had mostly forgiven him for it – but I thought perhaps I understood it better now than I had in the past.

* * *

I spent the remaining time organizing some old papers of Mama's and the Professor's, filing away letters and notes, a few out-of-date bills, and other correspondences that hadn't been touched since Mama's passing. I became caught up enough in my task that I scarcely heard the bell ring at the door precisely at ten – but when I did, I ceased my work at once and hurried to it.

It was not Erik who stood there, but a driver – a cabriolet waited at the curb-side. "If you please, _mademoiselle,_ " he said politely, "the gentleman told me you would be waiting for him."

"Would you describe him, please?" I asked, rather unwilling to get into a brougham I had not hired on the passing word of a driver – being a woman living alone in the city brought with it a certain necessity for caution, and while the "gentleman" he spoke of was almost certainly Erik, I could easily find myself at a terrible disadvantage if I assumed wrongly.

He nodded. "Tall – spindly, even. Strange eyes – if you don't mind me saying so. I daresay he might have been injured, for he covers a great deal of his face – "

"Yes, never mind, that's him," I said gratefully, and swiftly fetched my reticule. I politely declined his hand as he offered to help me down the steps, but thanked him for the gesture.

I embarked into the brougham, and was greeted by the sight of Erik looking rather nervous, although to a casual observer he might have appeared at ease. My practiced eyes noted the tenseness of his shoulders, the lacing of his fingers in his lap. I smiled at him, and he appeared to slightly relax.

"You are…you are well?" he asked somewhat awkwardly, and I nodded. "You?" I asked softly, and his eyes closed for a split second before he answered. "That is a somewhat…subjective question," he said, and I felt a spike of dread mixed with a dash of humiliation.

"I wasn't referring to your physical health," I said quickly, "but…while we're on the subject…you didn't have another attack while I was gone, did you?" He shook his head. "No. But I thank you for your concern. You received my note?"

"I did," I said, remembering with a pang the crossed-out _With love_ at its conclusion. "I shall have to think about it – about what you suggested, regarding the house – a little more before I answer. But," I changed the subject, injecting a note of forced cheer into my voice, "let's talk about to-day. Where are we going?"

He fiddled with the buttons on his coat, not looking at me. "I thought perhaps we could take a stroll through one of the less-traveled parks. I am…somewhat regretting my hastiness in suggesting this venture last night, although I know it would please you."

"Why do you regret it?" I asked with a touch of consternation.

He shifted uncomfortably. "I am afraid I somewhat overly romanticized the idea of strolling about the city with the object of my affection on a Sunday. I had not considered…other factors. People might stare. Some might even harass us, I daresay. That brief journey to the Hotel de Ville on the day we were wed was short, necessary, and done quickly. But this might not be so simple a task. I…I am not accustomed to walking about in broad daylight for lengthy periods of time."

"Erik," I said softly, moving closer to him at once and covering my hand with his. He looked directly at me then, and the tight line of his mouth softened. "I do not deserve you," he said.

I shook my head. "Nonsense. But…if it bothers you to walk about in the city, and you would rather not do this to-day, I won't mind it."

"I do have something," he said then, "something I've used before, on certain occasions. I didn't want to shock you, or subject you to anything for which you were not previously prepared. It isn't entirely convincing, but it might make it a touch easier to…blend in."

I furrowed my brow. "What is it?"

"Will you…will you turn away for a few moments, please?" he asked, and my mind buzzing with confusion, I did as he asked. I heard a slide of fabric, heard more rustling that suggested he was going through his coat-pockets, and then I sniffed the air as a strange yet vaguely familiar smell pervaded it. "Erik – "

"Don't turn around yet. Please."

I pursed my lips and tapped my fingers impatiently on my knee. Several moments passed, and finally he said with some faint dissatisfaction, "Well…all right. I suppose you can turn around now. But – will you promise me, please, not to be _too_ alarmed? I know you likely won't be able to help it, but…"

"Erik, I don't even know what –" I said in exasperation as I turned around, and then bit my lip and tried not to draw in a startled breath.

Erik was not wearing his mask. I could not even recall how long it had been since I had seen him without it; all the sharp, sickly-pale planes of his face and the bluish-grey hollows surrounding his eyes stood out as starkly as I remembered, save for one thing in the very center of it. He wore a false nose, the seams of it covered somewhat by a little blended greasepaint.

 _That was the smell,_ I thought suddenly. _Stage makeup and some sort of adhesive. Collodion, perhaps?_

His eyes darted off to the side, as though he were desperately trying to avoid looking at my muted reaction. "I…I don't have to remain like this, if you don't want me to. I'll put on my mask again if you tell me. I'll do whatever you say."

He sounded so much like a child, a child in a man's body; the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding came out of me in a rush. "Why would you think that?" I whispered. "Why would you think I would ask you to do that?"

He closed his eyes, savagely wiping his makeup-coated fingers on a pocket-handkerchief. His voice was pained. "Because before _you_ , Christine Daaé, I feel more exposed than I do in front of the whole of Paris."

My stomach gave a painful little clench. "You needn't feel that way."

"Oh, it isn't a question of _need_ ," he said with a touch of bitterness, still not looking at me. "It's entirely involuntary. Some reflexes are biological, ingrained in our very blood before we are even born; others must be learned, sometimes very early in our lives indeed. This particular reflex is, as I am sure you have guessed, of the latter variety."

"Didn't I tell you it wouldn't bother me?" I asked, more bravely than I felt. "You ought to take me at my word that it doesn't."

"Yes," he said smoothly, "I suppose I _could_ , but the fact remains that you have always been a rather terrible liar."

My face flushed. "I'm _not_ bothered," I said vehemently. "Only a little startled; I wasn't expecting this."

"Yes, I gathered that," he said dryly, and finally his eyes met mine. "Tell me truthfully," he asked, his voice soft and uncertain, but earnest. "Would you rather I go about to-day as I was, or no? With the mask, or without?"

"Without," I said easily. Inwardly, however, I hated myself for the thrill of horrified fascination that gripped me as I beheld his extraordinary visage. Would he have been handsome, had it not been for the circumstances of his birth? I thought not; the false nose was unsettling, but even with a real one, even with an ordinary-looking mouth and more color in his face, he would not have been particularly handsome. But there were plenty of plain-looking men who lived perfectly contented, ordinary lives, and I imagined Erik would have far preferred to be plain than to be…what he was.

"You're pondering something," he said. "I want to know what it is."

I shook my head quickly. "It's nothing."

"That fetching shade of red in your cheeks suggests otherwise," he pointed out calmly. "I daresay, however, that the fact that you show your little fibs so easily upon your face indicates a certain measure of good-natured conscience that a better liar would almost certainly not possess. There is, I believe, nothing remotely malicious in your occasional attempts at deceit, although I _should_ perhaps point out that we both promised to put lies behind us."

My face flushed more deeply. "Forgive me," I said. "What I ought to have said is that I'm not comfortable sharing all of my innermost thoughts at present. But I _do_ prefer that you go without the mask to-day. That was no lie."

He nodded. "Thank you," he said. "That is…kind."

I found his hand again, and he grasped it lightly. "You are a wonder, Christine," he said softly. "I sometimes think perhaps I am taking advantage of that sweet-tempered nature of yours."

"You aren't," I said. "In fact I rather think that you deserve far more kindness than what I give."

"Now _that_ is surely a lie," he said, but with a sardonic little twist to his mouth. He began lifting my hand before suddenly stopping, looking at me. "I don't know the rules anymore, I'm afraid," he said. "You'll have to enlighten me."

"You can kiss my hand," I said, a little color still coming into my face. "It's all right."

"Very well," he said, and he carefully brushed his lips over my knuckles. I didn't know why, after so many of his previous kisses upon my hand, this should still make me blush – but it did.

"You're certain," he said, "that you will be at ease in my company while I appear thus?"

"Of course," I said, in spite of the little tremble in my stomach, and almost placed my hand on his cheek but swiftly thought better of it. We were shying away from too much intimacy at present, after all, and hadn't the whole point of this been to proceed at a somewhat more leisurely pace? Besides, I thought it might startle him, or make him feel "boxed in" all over again, and I had no wish to inspire another ill mood on a day that ought to be peaceful between us.

* * *

We arrived at a moderately sized park, peppered and surrounded with a great many trees. Erik's hand gripped mine with the nervousness of a child and the strength of a man not paying attention, and I inadvertently let out a little squeak of pain. He drew in a breath and loosened his grip at once. "Forgive me," he said. "I…I don't know what's come over me this morning."

I somewhat gingerly laced my fingers through his. " _I am with you_ ," I said softly, the game suddenly seeming very distant. "I'm your wife, and I'll remain at your side."

He closed his eyes and shivered. "I'm simply a suitor taking his intended on a stroll to-day," he said, "but that is a lovely sentiment indeed, from an even lovelier young woman."

He helped me from the cabriolet and the driver left us; suddenly we seemed quite alone. Rather than be unsettled by this, I had rather come to welcome moments spent quietly in each other's company, and I felt strangely tranquil – a counterpoint, perhaps, to Erik's uncertainty.

"Come," he said, slipping his fingers from mine and offering me his arm instead. A little lance of disappointment went through me, but I took his arm without complaint. I had asked for this, after all, this courtship; I might as well see it through to its conclusion. But my thoughts were a tumble of strange longing; the absence of our former familiarity suddenly pricked at me, and the novelty of pretense was beginning to slowly wear away.

 _I really am the very picture of capriciousness,_ I thought miserably. _Perhaps this invisible distance between us is for the best after all; it will give me some measure of time to know my own mind._

I looked up at Erik, and he glanced down at me; my thoughts calmed. "I am glad to be with you, M. Deschamps," I said with a small smile, and his mouth curved up, his own smile slowly spreading across his face and – to my surprise – quite transforming it for a moment. Oh, happiness suited him very well indeed, whatever he might think, and I felt a deep, comfortable warmth spread along the length of my spine.

"I am glad to be with _you_ , Mlle. Daaé," he said in turn, and my own smile widened a little further still. I averted my eyes, feeling unaccountably shy beneath his soft gaze; my fingers, tucked into the crook of his elbow, gave it a light little squeeze.

Suddenly Erik stiffened, and I saw two pairs of people ahead of us on the path. Like us, they appeared to be couples out for a Sunday stroll, and I gripped Erik's arm reassuringly. "I am _with_ you," I said again, and he let out a long breath, his body beginning to relax, though he quickened our pace a little.

We passed the first couple, a man and a woman, who glanced in our direction only briefly. I saw the man do a sudden double-take as he regarded Erik, but he had the grace to swiftly avert his eyes and pretend he hadn't been staring. Erik didn't appear to notice, his eyes firmly fixed on the path ahead, his jaw set in a firm line.

The second couple was actually a pair of women – sisters or friends, I wasn't certain – and they had seated themselves on a bench. I saw their eyes widen a little as they looked at Erik, and then their gaze darted toward me with something like confused pity. I smiled beatifically at them, leaning a little into Erik as we walked and giving him an adoring look. When I happened to glance back at the women, one of them was awkwardly pretending to search through her reticule, and the other was looking at her hands in her lap.

When we had put a fair distance between ourselves and the other people on the path, Erik's jaw unclenched and he looked at me with an unreadable expression. "You are quite a fine actress, Mlle. Daaé," he said smoothly, and my cheeks flushed. "All of my acting," I said, forcing my voice to sound calm, "onstage or otherwise, has always carried at least a measure of truth in it. Make of that what you will."

He was silent for several moments as we walked, and my face grew warmer as I stared ahead at the path. "You may tell me at once if this is too impertinent a question," he said, "but I confess I am…curious."

"Yes?" I asked placidly.

His arm shifted a little under mine. "Has any man…ever kissed you?"

I furrowed my brow. "That depends on what sort of –" I began, but he cut me off. "Your mouth," he said, his voice at once curt and uncertain. "Has any man ever claimed your mouth?"

I looked at him, mildly startled at his directness. "Now that _is_ rather impertinent, M. Deschamps," I said evenly, keeping my composure by playing the game, "but if you truly must know, I suppose it can't do much harm to tell you. I don't wish for there to be very many secrets between us." I paused, gathering my courage. "Raoul did," I said, my chest suddenly seeming to shrink as I said it. I had felt more than brave enough to let the words come, but as they came, I abruptly felt small and very nervous indeed. "Only once. Before he left for the North Pole."

"Ah," he said softly, his eyes closing for a moment. When they opened again, he did not look at me. "And did you make any promises to him, or he to you? I am curious about this as well."

"I…" I swallowed. "We…we said that perhaps we might marry. Someday." It was not exactly a lie.

"Do you think he truly cares for you," he asked in a very flat voice, "your sweet-faced sailor?"

I bit my lip, facing forward again. "Yes," I said softly, "I do."

"Do you love him?"

These words were pained beyond expression, and my teeth drove down upon my bottom lip so fiercely I almost drew blood. "Erik, don't ask me that," I whispered. "You won't like the answer."

"I don't care," he said, suddenly stopping in the middle of the path and turning swiftly to face me. "I want to know."

I trembled. "I think I do," I said. "But it's…different with him. I'm not at all sure his family would ever give their consent for us to marry, and I don't want him to risk ruin by giving everything up to make me his wife. I haven't allowed myself any grand notions. Only vague possibilities, far in the future."

"And me?" he said, his voice suddenly fierce, no longer the gentle, timid suitor. "What do you feel for _me_ , beyond pity and revulsion?"

"I told you," I said with some alarm, "I care for you."

"Yes, but what does that _mean_ , exactly?" he asked me, his eyes burning. "Is it the care of a student for her aging teacher? A daughter doting upon her ill father? Or is it something else entirely?"

"Erik," I said, quivering, "you are _not_ my father, however gamely you have occasionally acted in that sort of capacity. And it is not how I see you, nor how I care for you."

"What, then?" he asked brusquely. "Teacher? Friend?"

"More than that," I said before I could stop myself, and he swallowed. "More?" he asked. I took a breath, then nodded.

"Explain that to me, Christine," he said, lightly grasping my shoulders. " _Please._ "

My pulse quickened. "Those people will be gaining on us at any moment, if they are continuing up the path," I said, and without further ado, he took my arm and pulled me into a nearby copse of trees, where we were safely obscured from view.

"I…I apologize for touching you so much without first gaining your leave," he said suddenly, and I shook my head. "It's all right. I don't mind keeping to the same rules as before, at least in this particular instance."

"In that case," he said, and tipped my chin up with his fingers, far differently than Carlotta had. My blood pounded in my temples. "Tell me, songbird," he said, his voice honeyed and rich, but demanding, " _what does 'more' mean?_ "

"I…" My voice caught in my throat, and I stared at him, at his sharp, pallid wreck of a face, his slightly flushed, twisted mouth, his fierce eyes. The old Christine would have stammered out _I don't know, please don't ask me, take me home, I don't want to do this anymore,_ but the new Christine had rather different ideas in spite of the lingering little anxieties which assailed me.

"Two nights ago," I murmured, before I could stop myself, "I wondered if I was in love with you."

As the words left my mouth, I felt a sudden rush of panic, but it was far too late to take them back. His lips parted and his fingers fell slowly from my chin, his hand going limply to his side.

"You're not lying," he breathed. "Oh, this is impossible."

"It's true," I said, and my voice quivered, "although I might as well tell you I haven't quite decided the answer yet."

Erik's hands were shaking; one finger on the left hand tapped a nervous rhythm on his thigh, the other hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. I reached out without thinking and he held up his hand, halting me. "Give me…give me a moment," he said. "Please."

I stood uncertainly as he shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths. "Oh, Christine, I feel so very exposed," he whispered. "All I wish to do is hide. A man doesn't do that, does he? A man is not _meant_ to hide, even a very ugly one. But I am truly beyond the pale in every conceivable way."

I felt another painful dagger in my heart, and anger too – anger for the treatment he must have endured, anger for his upbringing. Anger for all the despicable human influences, large and small, which had shaped his view of himself. And then I felt shame – for I, too, had been no stranger to repulsion inspired by that visage. Many things had happened over the course of my acquaintance with Erik to make me initially dislike the idea of being bound to him, but the past few weeks had been different. _He_ seemed different; he was, at least to my observation, truly making an effort to be better. I was ashamed that my wariness of him had almost as much to do with his appearance as it did some of his past traits – traits which he seemed, for the moment at least, to be doing an adequate job of reigning in.

I also realized that his face now held far less aversion and distaste for me than it had previously. It was only a face, a collection of features, and he was far more than the sum of it. I knew I cared for him; I knew that the feeling was far more than that I might feel for a friend. How many times had I imagined putting my lips to his over the past several days, and especially since the events of yesterday morning? It had gone from an idle caprice in my mind to an almost definitive longing in my heart. And that was a very earth-shattering thought indeed: where once I had feared and despised the idea of giving him my undivided affection, I now knew for certain that it was not so unthinkable at all.

Filled with sudden, strangely bold determination, I raised my hand to his cheek and he flinched backwards, but I shook my head. "Let me," I murmured, inexplicably desperate to convince him to allow me this, "please let me, Erik, _please_ ," and he stilled, his eyes filled with some mixture of terror and wonder. I lightly touched my fingers to the shallow dip of his temple, the sharp jut of his cheekbone and the gaunt hollow beneath; I slowly grazed them over the long line of his jaw. His eyes fluttered almost shut and his breath came in short little bursts.

"Are you…are you feeling badly?" I asked softly, awkwardly. "Is this all right? I'll stop if – "

"No," he whispered. "Please. It's…I am merely…very unaccustomed. You are so…" He opened his eyes. "So very beautiful," he said hoarsely.

My fingers trembled atop his skin. It was softer than I had expected, like something between velvet and leather; some places were smooth, others crinkled with the lines of age. I drew my fingers over his throat before I could give it a second thought, feeling a little faint stubble beneath his chin – there was, strangely, none on his face – and he caught my wrist, breathing heavily. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful for your…very generous attentions," he said, "but I am feeling mildly overwhelmed at present."

"Oh," I said quickly. "I'm sorry, I knew this might make you feel boxed in, I didn't mean – "

"It isn't that," he interrupted, and then paused. "Well…not entirely, at any rate."

"Then what?" I asked, and then suddenly color came up into my cheeks. "Oh," I said. "I…oh."

A mild flush came into his face too at this – which was a very odd sight indeed – and he awkwardly smoothed his coat, dropping my wrist and taking a stiff step back from me. "We should keep walking," he said.

I might have felt rather brazen and powerful for a moment, but the feeling faded very quickly. I began to think that perhaps I had gone too far, that I had somehow managed to frighten him too badly.

I slowly held out my hand, unsure if he would take it. He did, but gingerly, tucking it quickly into the crook of his arm. As he did this, he regarded me with a strange, very careful expression, almost as though I were made of gunpowder.

"Don't worry," I said, looking away from him, "I won't do that again. Not if you don't want me to."

"Oh, but that is precisely the trouble," he said, and his voice seemed to shiver and slide down my spine like a warm caress. "I _do_ want you to."

My breath caught in my throat, and I looked up at him again. He did not look at me.

"It is my understanding that the flowers in the northern corner of the park are particularly lovely when they begin to bloom," he said quite normally, as though nothing remotely out of the ordinary had happened. "Shall we go and take a look?"

My mouth was slightly open and I shut it quickly. "I…yes," I said, fumbling over my words. "Yes, let's."

We were silent for a long time as we left the trees and continued along a different fork of the path. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many things I wanted to _do_ , but I felt paralyzed by indecision. _If I give my heart to Erik,_ I thought, _I might never be able to get it back again after he is gone. And what of Raoul? I loved him first, didn't I? And I love him still – at least, I think I do. Is it a sin, to carve my heart in half? Or is it not at all a question of dividing my love into halves, but simply a matter of multiplying the love I have to give?_

We reached the spot he had spoken of, but most of the flowers were still tightly closed in their buds; I was glad I had worn my light wrap, for there was a lingering chill in the air.

Erik looked at me and shrugged rather helplessly. I smiled in return. "Thank you for bringing me here," I said. "The flowers aren't quite in bloom yet, but it's still lovely. It's all right." I smoothed my skirt, giving my hands something to do, and then I spoke again. "Flowers are very much like people at times, aren't they? All they require to reach their full potential is a little warmth, a good place to grow."

"Some plants," Erik said, "are not at all beautiful like carefully tended flowers, but scrubby and hard due to their circumstance. I rather admire the weeds in a garden, in point of fact; they are tenacious. They cling to life despite every obstacle hurled into their path. Flowers experience no such diversity; they wilt and wither under pressure."

"Not all of them, surely," I said, becoming increasingly aware that we were not, in fact, speaking of plants anymore. "Surely there are some flowers which thrive in spite of their obstacles."

"I for one have always enjoyed the sight of marigolds," Erik said, "though they are perhaps not the best example of what you describe. I have never been able to keep them, myself; they are beautiful and fairly hardy, but they require a significant amount of warmth and sunlight. They do not do well in the cold or the dark." He looked pointedly at me.

"Perhaps we could plant some," I said, pretending I didn't know of what he spoke, "at the little house. I'm sure they would do well there."

"Perhaps," he said. "But I wonder if a marigold can truly thrive with a weed in her garden."

I slid my other hand across his arm to meet the one tucked into his elbow. "I rather think," I said, "that the two might learn to peacefully coexist, don't you?"

"Let me put it another way, then," he said, his arm stiff beneath my hands. "Can a marigold _love_ a weed?"

I became very still, and I looked up at him, my heart thumping. "I think perhaps she can," I said quietly. "But you must be patient with her."

He regarded me with a very strange expression, as though he were attempting to take the measure of me, trying to decipher and discern.

I took his cool hand between mine, sliding my fingers over the ropy veins and callused skin, the protruding bones and knuckles. He lifted his other hand to my face, looking at me wonderingly. His fingers hovered just at the side of my cheek, a hair's-breadth away, and on a whim I leaned into it so that he cradled my cheek in his palm. A breath came out of him, a soft _oh_ of surprise.

"I love you, Christine," he said, his voice a pained murmur. "I love you."

I couldn't say the words in return; not yet. I wasn't quite ready for that yet, and I thought – I hoped – he knew this, and that he did not take offense to it. But I thought I was ready for something, at least, and I wondered how to do it when he was so tall and I couldn't reach. Even standing on tip-toe would have made me come up just short of his mouth; I needed him to reciprocate the act, to meet me in the middle, and I hadn't the faintest idea of how to ask for it without startling him.

I lifted my hand to his face again, brushing my fingers over his cheek. He shivered, but didn't move away. When I trailed my fingers over his mouth, his half-lidded eyes shot open and looked at me not with panic, but with molten ardor.

My lips parted, and I tugged on his coat before I could think myself out of it, pulling him down to me.

Our mouths brushed each other's lightly, fumbling and uncertain, an awkward dance between inexperienced partners. His hands were akimbo, shaking. I wanted more, but I was worried Erik would feel it was too much; I released his coat and he straightened, his breath short.

"I…" He pressed his fingers against his lips, then lightly touched my face, my hair, wildly and at random, as though he were trying to make sense of it all. "I'm sorry I didn't…oh, _Christine…_ I was caught off guard, you see, and…"

I put my own finger to his lips to _shush_ him. "Do you want to do it again?" I asked, my boldness startling even me.

He gently grabbed my hand, studying my face intently. "What a question," he said. "What an absolutely extraordinary new caprice from my little _fedrottning._ " (I noted he pronounced it perfectly this time.)

"It isn't a caprice," I said, my knees shaking a little, my lips tingling. "I can assure you of that."

"Be careful, Mlle. Daaé," he said, his voice taking on a low, deliciously dangerous tone. "I may take you at your word."

I opened my mouth to boldly ask him to do just that, but at that moment we heard voices from around the bend, and Erik's expression changed from predatory to mildly unsettled.

"Clearly, we shall have to continue this discussion at a later date," he said, tugging on my hand so that I followed him along the path in the opposite direction from the voices. "This is hardly the time or the place for such matters."

"Where are we going?" I asked, and he sighed. "I don't know," he said. "Home, I suppose. I thought perhaps I might take you to coffee, but you must forgive me my social failings, for I truly don't believe I can manage that just now."

The thought of being underground suddenly felt stifling; and then a thought came to me that was entirely unexpected. "We could go to my flat," I said mildly, and he stopped dead in the middle of the path; I almost bumped into him. "Your flat?" he asked strangely, his voice thin and timid.

"It's not as though there's anyone there to bother us," I said. "Mama's maid has been gone for some time. I live alone." I had a sudden image of being wrapped in his long arms on the sofa – _my_ sofa, this time – and a little burst of anticipation swept through me.

"I…" I saw his tongue dart out very swiftly along his lips as he stared into the distance. "I suppose…if you are amenable…"

"I am," I said. "You've never seen it, and I'd like you to. We can have coffee there, if you want. It would be a very ordinary sort of Sunday."

He looked at me and tilted his head. "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I suppose…"

"It's settled, then," I said firmly, quieting the faint shrieks of propriety in my head, and strangely eager for the chance to have more kisses. _And who could have imagined I would feel so wanton from such an awkward occurrence?_ "Let's hail a cab."


	12. Chapter XII - Different

**A/N: Sorry this took a bit longer than I planned! I had to do several massive rewrites of a few key scenes before I was satisfied with them, and I've been battling my annual autumn cold, among other things. As always, thanks so much for your patience and support!**

* * *

"Christine," Erik said nervously, wringing his hands and looking about us as we stood on the sidewalk outside my flat, "are you quite certain this is a good idea? If someone sees us – your reputation – "

"If you wish to visibly preserve my reputation," I said calmly, "perhaps you ought to get me a ring at some juncture. Besides, this street is very quiet, and if there _does_ happen to be anyone peeping out of windows – well, they can gossip all they like. We are legally married, after all; there isn't any shame in bringing my husband to my flat."

He stared at me. "A ring," he said. "Yes. I…ah…are you _quite_ certain you would want our legal union to be so public?"

I shrugged, although a little warmth had come up in my face; I pulled out the key to the flat from my reticule. "I'll keep Daaé as my stage name, as you suggested," I said. "I think perhaps you were right in saying that it stands out; it's far more unusual and eye-catching to Parisians than a French surname. But I do think that perhaps it might be time to let the managers know I've been married. It would explain my upcoming absence much more effectively than a sojourn for my health."

I wondered even as I said this if I was being too forward, too swift in my assumptions and too brazen in my ideas. But I rather liked feeling as though I had some measure of control over my own life, and Erik – bless him – appeared to have little to no complaint. At least for the moment.

The ride to my flat from the park had been muted and strange; Erik had constantly been coming up with an awkward, irrelevant barrage of small-talk, almost as if to distract from what had happened between us at the park. But I could not forget it, and I knew he hadn't; I still felt the faint whisper of his lips on mine, and I wanted it again. God help me, I really, truly wanted it again, and that was something I should never have imagined myself thinking only weeks or days before.

We entered the flat, and I directed him to the sitting-room after he hung his coat on one of the hooks, at my insistence. "I'll make the coffee," I said. "It's the one thing I'm actually quite good at; Mama taught me ages ago. How do you like yours?"

"Black," he said, looking about my dwelling as though he were in a sort of strange, unsettling dream. He sat very awkwardly indeed on one of the upholstered chairs, and I left him to go to the kitchen.

 _Isn't this the picture of domesticity,_ I thought wryly to myself as I used the percolator on the stove. _Making coffee for myself and my husband. What an unexpected day this has been in so many ways._

I poured the coffee into two small cups and put a few cubes of sugar into mine, although I hadn't any cream; it would have to do. Erik's coffee was easiest of all, of course, for all I had to do was pour it; I wondered if his preference for taking it black was due to the difficulties with his sense of taste, but I thought it would be rude to ask.

As I brought out the coffee, Erik straightened and stood up, stiff with politeness. "Thank you," he said as he took his cup and saucer, and he resumed his seat on the chair when I sat on the sofa.

I regarded him curiously for a moment and then nonchalantly began sipping my coffee, biding my time. Erik was the very picture of nervousness, shifting uncomfortably in his seat every few moments. The cup rattled a bit on the saucer when he put it back down.

I cleared my throat. "Would you like to sit here instead?" I asked, gesturing to the space beside me on the sofa, and he swallowed. "Would _you_ like me to?" he asked rather incredulously, and I smiled in response.

Erik slowly rose from his chair, clutching his saucer in both hands as though afraid he'd drop it, and carefully stepped over to the little couch. "By your leave," he said. "Of course," I replied politely, trying not to sound impatient, and patted the sofa in a welcoming gesture.

He sat down as though he thought the couch might fall from under him, but after a moment, he relaxed. There was more space between us than I might have liked, but I supposed that was for the best. I couldn't remember the last time I had been so easily direct in my words and actions. Perhaps it was because the balance of power seemed to have shifted; rather than being in Erik's domain, we were in mine, and while this unexpected change had somewhat emboldened me, it seemed to have very much unsettled him.

I finished my coffee in tranquil silence; Erik had barely touched his, although when he realized that I had done with mine, he began quickly drinking from his cup again, almost as though he thought it would be impolite if he didn't.

"You can put it there on the table," I said when he had finished, having already put my cup and saucer there myself. "I'll clean them up later."

An unsteady silence fell upon us for a few moments when he had put down his empty cup. I cleared my throat again. "Well," I said carefully. "I suppose now would be as good a time as any to discuss…what happened in the park."

Erik inclined his head a little and nodded, but carefully avoided looking at me. "Yes," he said. "Am I correct in assuming that the rules have changed somewhat?"

"Yes," I said without a trace of hesitation.

Erik absently cracked his knuckles. "I apologize for my…my clumsiness in that regard," he said. "You must understand I was not exactly expecting it."

I fidgeted in my seat a bit, wanting to move closer to him but not quite daring. "I didn't mean to catch you so off guard," I said. "It was very impulsive of me. Still…" I glanced at him a little shyly. "I did enjoy it."

Erik's hands were resting on his knees; suddenly his fingers curled tightly inward. "You did?" he asked, almost breathlessly, and I nodded.

"Might I ask…what precisely are the rules now?" he inquired hesitantly.

"Well," I said somewhat timidly myself, my confidence beginning to wane, "I suppose…I suppose you could do that – kiss me on the mouth, I mean – whenever you like."

He stared at me incredulously. " _Whenever_ I like? You can't possibly be serious."

My face reddened, but I stood my ground. "I assure you I am."

"You're _entirely_ certain?" he asked, and I nodded mutely, smoothing my skirt to give my hands something to do and my eyes something on which to focus besides him.

He was, to my somewhat frustration, still skeptical. I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised. "You truly would allow me to do that whenever I like."

" _Yes,_ " I said in exasperation, and as I turned my eyes back toward him, my breath hitched; he was much closer to me than I remembered him being only moments ago, and his eyes carried a little spark that threatened to set me ablaze.

"Well, Christine," he said, and my heart began to pound so wildly I thought it would leap through my skin, "I suppose the only civil thing to do would be to take you at your word, then."

His cool fingers gently tilted my head up, and though he hesitated for a split second, I leaned forward a little and that was all the encouragement he required.

Our mouths met again, slowly and – to my astonishment and delight – repeatedly. His kisses were light and shy for all their barely concealed passion, and I met them with the blind uncertainty of an explorer charting a new land. Suddenly a wicked, welcome feeling began to curl and blossom inside me; a steady warmth bloomed amidst my nervous excitement. I wrapped my arms about his neck and deepened the next kiss, and felt a little spike of pleasure when he gasped into my mouth.

His hands left my face and his arms went about my waist; he pulled me somewhat roughly against him and this time it was my turn to gasp. The flush of heat in my face was almost eclipsed by the heat spreading throughout my body in turns; his mouth fumbled desperately on mine and his hands moved over my back. I clung to him like a port in a storm, and his ardent ministrations upon my lips were just as eagerly returned by me upon his.

At length he came up for air, leaning his head back a little. "I…I need a moment," he said, and then quickly added, "Not out of any reluctance to continue, I can assure you." I nodded, my cheeks warm.

As we breathed together, I laid my head upon his chest and was startled by how swiftly and wildly his heart pounded. "Are you all right?" I whispered. "Should we stop? I don't want you to be ill."

He chuckled. "If _this_ is to be my end," he muttered, "I shall die a very happy man. But no. I'm not ill. Merely a little winded." He curled his fingers lightly into my pinned hair, one hand still pressed to the small of my back. "Such a diminutive thing you are," he said tenderly, brushing his lips over my temple. "So soft, so good. Why are you good to me, Christine?"

"Because I care for you," I said easily, and he sighed, holding me a little more tightly. "I didn't ask permission for this," he said suddenly. "Should I have?"

"No," I murmured, "it's quite all right. You can do this whenever you like, too."

He hummed with pleasure and kissed the top of my head. " _D_ _é_ _esse,_ " he said. Goddess. "How do you say _that_ in your native tongue?"

I blushed. " _Gudinna._ " I muttered.

" _Gudinna,_ " he repeated. I mildly corrected him on where he had placed the emphasis.

"Not quite as delightful-sounding as _fedrottning,_ " he said, "but far more apropos in this particular situation, I think."

I closed my eyes. "If you say so."

"Oh, I do," he said, his voice as contented as the purr of a cat being stroked. His fingers at the small of my back began to lightly drift up my spine, and I shivered with pleasure.

Erik paused. "Is that…good?"

"Good," I murmured in confirmation, and when his cool fingers continued to drift over the back of my neck, I forced myself to swallow the noise I nearly made.

"Tell me," he said curiously, "is this ordinary behavior for courting?"

"I should think not," I replied, attempting to regulate my breathing. "Generally people have a chaperone, if one or both of them aren't of age. This sort of thing would be almost impossible under ordinary circumstances."

He grew still for a moment, quiet. "You say he only kissed you once."

I stiffened, suddenly uncomfortable in his arms. "Yes."

"But as I recall, he took you to a great many places without any kind of an escort."

"What?" I asked, pulling away and sitting up. "You didn't follow us, did you? Erik!"

"Of course I didn't," he said, sounding almost wounded. "And I didn't give the slightest credence to any overheard gossip. But I would often see you leave with him."

I pursed my lips, still unsettled. "We didn't feel a chaperone was necessary," I said, feeling odd talking about this with him. "We were…old friends. It wasn't like that, really. At least at first. But even then…everything was very restrained. We chaperoned ourselves, I suppose."

"So _this_ …" he said, his voice slow and thoughtful. "This is…different."

I blinked. "Well…yes," I said carefully, my mind a strange tumble of confused thoughts. "I…I suppose it is."

"Why?"

There again was that damnable _why,_ spoken rather like a small child inquiring about anything and everything, _why, why, why._ I wanted to be irritated, but I couldn't, not when he was so strangely earnest even amidst his clinical tone of observation. Erik the Scientist, always wanting to know how everything worked – even people. Especially us.

"I don't know how to answer that, Erik," I said. "Truly I don't. I suppose one feels different things for different people, in differing situations. But I'm afraid I really don't know how to properly explain."

He scowled for a moment.

"Forgive me, Christine," he said. "Human interaction…its nuances, its niceties and all of its wildly varying facets…confuses me in many ways. If I ask you a great many questions, it is only because I am attempting to understand it."

"It's all right," I said, a little further unsettled by his rather detached use of the term "human interaction," as if the human race did not include him at all. "I only wish I had better answers."

"Matters of biology and of machines are simple enough," he said sullenly. "One takes apart a machine to find out how it functions; one can dissect a formerly living creature to discover much the same. But one cannot pick apart emotion and thought and the _soul_ by mere dissection. It is…ephemeral. This frustrates me beyond expression!"

A little knot formed in the pit of my stomach. " _Have_ you dissected things?" I asked before I could stop myself. He shrugged, as though it were of no consequence. "Yes, of course I have. Why?"

My face blanched, and he took notice. "You do realize, Christine," he said calmly, "that _dissection_ is performed upon creatures that are already dead. _Vivisection_ refers to such an act performed while they are alive, and that I have never done. Although it would certainly provide an… _interesting_ learning opportunity, I do have my limits."

I felt sure my face was turning a little green. "Let's not talk about it anymore," I said quickly.

"I seem to have touched a raw nerve," he said, his voice suddenly softening. "I apologize."

"I was raised with a healthy respect for the dead," I said. "Even animals – Papa used to say that if one killed an animal, one ought to use every part of it that one could. It makes me ill to think of animals – even dead ones – being cut open to study and then discarded." I paused, considering my next words carefully, not sure I wanted to explore this territory. "As for _human_ bodies – they're meant to rest quietly in the ground."

"Medical science has been greatly benefitted and advanced by being able to study the body after death," Erik rejoined, and I shuddered. "Perhaps," I said. "But I still don't like to think of it." I did not ask him if he himself had ever dissected a human body – I had a terrible inkling that it had not only been animal corpses to which he had admitted dissecting, and I did not think I could bear the answer.

"We won't speak of it, then." Erik reached out a hand, his fingers trailing a whisper-light caress along my cheek. "Tender Christine," he said, and I looked away irritably although his touch made me shiver. "I'm not made of glass," I said. "I'm much more resilient than I appear."

"Yes, I know," he said, dropping his hand, and then he looked across the room. "That piano," he said curiously. "I noticed it when I came in. Who played? Was it your Mama Valerius?"

"The Professor and Mama both," I said, and then hesitantly continued, "and me."

Erik's eyes met mine with interest, and surprise. "You never told me."

"I didn't see the need. It's been a very long while since I played with any regularity."

He looked again at the piano, and then at me again. "Would you indulge me?" he asked. "I would like to hear you."

"As long as you don't rake me over the coals when I fail to impress," I said dryly. "Be gentle with me."

"I thought you weren't made of glass," he rejoined somewhat sardonically, and I scowled at him. He laughed. "Play for me," he said. "Go on, Christine." I raised an eyebrow and he quickly added, "Please."

I nodded primly and made my way across the room, sitting on the bench and pulling out my old music. As I began to play, I could feel his eyes on me, and I didn't know whether to be nervous or pleased; after the first song, I began to show off a little, playing a more complicated piece that I had practiced long ago and only become reacquainted with that morning. I made an amateurish mistake or two, but continued playing through my blushes, and Erik remained silent in his scrutiny until I was finished. I turned around on the bench and he gazed at me, sitting very still indeed.

"I'm afraid my skill is mediocre at best," I said apologetically, and he tilted his head. "You could do with instruction," he said, "and there were errors –"

"Ah," I said, grimacing knowingly, "I might have known you would point those out."

"– but overall, it was quite good," he said, acting as though I had not spoken. "The first time I heard your voice, I thought similarly. Clear, ringing notes, obvious evidence of technique, but wanting shape and structure." He paused. "You are so much more confident now, when you sing," he said. "So full of emotion, of life! You shrank from it before, but now you embrace it with open arms."

"Carlotta noticed it, too," I said softly. "Everyone did, but her especially. Did you know she actually paid me compliment after the last performance? And she meant it, too. She told me to keep up with my practice, that I had blossomed and would be a very fine singer. I was a little shocked."

"Carlotta is not the type of woman to take blossoming singers under her wing," Erik remarked. "I should be wary of her if I were you."

I shrugged. "I really do think she was actually sincere, for once. She said I must have a very good teacher 'to have brought out such a spark' in my voice."

"She certainly wasn't wrong," Erik replied, sounding both mildly embarrassed and pleased.

"Humble as ever," I remarked wryly, choosing not to mention the bit about "a lover." "At any rate, it was…refreshing, to be treated so cordially by her."

"Still," Erik said, "I tell you she is not to be trusted."

"Perhaps." I shifted on the bench, not wanting to argue. "I don't suppose you'd care to play something for me," I said nonchalantly, knowing he could not resist such requests. "Or sing."

Erik stood up almost immediately. "On the contrary," he said, "I would be delighted to do both, if you would permit me."

One corner of my mouth went up, and I slid from the bench and stood to the side to make room for him. As he sat, he looked at me with something like content upon his face. "Being here – all of this – it's quite different than our usual custom," he said. "I find I like it."

I blushed. "So do I."

He flexed his fingers and began lowering them to the keys, but then he looked up. "This…little game of courtship that you and I played this morning," he said. "How is it to be approached now? Are we discarding it entirely?"

I shifted my feet uncomfortably. "I think…perhaps…we simply ought to do what feels natural. It isn't that I don't enjoy a great many of the little niceties of courtship. And the game is…somewhat enjoyable, of itself. I feel a little silly revoking it so soon when it was my idea to begin with. But things changed so quickly to-day, more quickly than I expected they might, and…" I paused, looking at Erik. "What would _you_ prefer?" I asked him softly, and he lowered his hands from the piano entirely, placing them on his knees.

"That is a somewhat paralyzing question," he said. "I am, of course, grateful for your consideration of my feelings. But I will willingly remind you that the rules of this situation between us are _your_ province, Christine. Not mine. That responsibility _cannot_ be mine. I am certainly not _opposed_ to more familiarity than that to which we have previously been accustomed, but I will never demand it. You have given me…such a gift to-day, such a great gift, one that appeared to be entirely voluntary and of your own free will. And that was the beauty of it, you see. _Never_ do I wish to feel that you are only engaging in any particular behavior of this nature because you somehow feel you must." He looked up at me, worry in his eyes. "You _did_ kiss me of your own free will to-day?" he asked. "You didn't feel as if –"

"Of course I did it freely," I said swiftly, reassuringly. "I wanted to. I truly did."

" _Why?_ " he asked yet again, and I sighed. " _Must_ there be a particular reason? I felt ready. I wanted to. That ought to be enough."

"But…" He turned back to the piano in apparent frustration. "Perhaps I should put it another way. I simply cannot understand," he said, "why such a lovely creature as yourself should willingly embrace someone of my…particular aspect."

"Perhaps because people are far more than the sum of their appearances," I said evenly. "Erik, you are a great many things, and I know you've _done_ terrible things, but you aren't nearly as horrible in your heart as you'd like people to believe."

"Explain," he said, swiveling around and straddling the bench in order to face me. "How am I _not_ horrible?"

I swallowed. "You can be very gentle. Considerate. Kind. Since our wedding-day, you have respected the rules and never argued any right to break them. Even now, you leave it in my hands. A horrible man might have done quite the opposite. But you aren't horrible. Perhaps at one time in your life you were, but you aren't anymore. You can be very good, when it suits you."

Erik took a long, deep breath. "Thank you, Christine," he said quietly, and turned back to the piano again. "What shall I play?" he asked. I shrugged. "Whatever you'd like."

He sat very still for a moment, and then began to play the opening notes to a song I recognized from the opera Carmen. He closed his eyes and began to sing, his fingers moving along the keys as though they had a life of their own.

" _La fleur que tu m'avais jetée…_ " ( _The flower that you had thrown me…_ )

His voice surrounded me, cradled me like a tentative, tender embrace. Warmth began to spread slowly within me as he sang, spiraling outward in little waves. Erik's voice gradually swelled, and I leaned my head back without thinking, lost in the strange, familiar ecstasy of his voice.

 _I only felt but one sole desire,_

 _One sole desire, one sole hope:_

 _To see you again, Christine, oh,_

 _To see you again!_

My eyes snapped open; he had replaced Carmen's name with mine.

 _For you had only to appear,_

 _Only to cast one glance upon me_

 _To overtake my entire being_

 _Oh, my Christine!_

His voice grew quieter, softer, and I felt it in the length of my spine like a silken caress.

 _And I was yours_

 _Christine…I love you_

When he had finished, I was breathing heavily; my shoulders slumped, and I took a step back from the piano. Oh, this was almost too much, this stark emotion laid bare; I felt limp and a little drained.

Erik looked at me, his eyes glowing with love, his face not so very unsettling when it shone with hope and quiet happiness. He timidly reached out one hand, and I moved forward to slip my fingers into the welcoming embrace of his. He pulled me forward, catching me a little off-balance, and I caught myself by putting my other hand on his shoulder.

"I want to kiss you again," he said, his breath shuddering. "May I?"

I felt a little flutter of nervous excitement. "Oh, I don't know, M. Deschamps," I said, unable to keep from smiling. "This all seems rather scandalous."

His brow furrowed for a split second, but he caught on rather more quickly than I expected, and a little gleam appeared in his eyes. "Coquetry does not suit you at all, Mlle. Daaé," he said, slowly pulling me closer. A swift little giggle hummed past my lips before I could help myself. "Oh, I rather think it does," I said. " _You_ seem to enjoy it."

"I am asking for permission in order to be polite," he said, "even though you rather foolishly gave me overt permission earlier to do this whenever I choose."

"It wasn't foolish," I said with a small scowl, "but thank you. And yes, you may."

"Come here, then," he said, his voice calm but his eyes eager, and he not entirely gently pulled me down so that I sat on the piano bench beside him, almost in his lap.

My hands curled around the lapels of his waistcoat and I leaned forward, meeting him halfway as he inclined his head toward me. A little spark of longing smoldered in my breast and threaded through my body as his lips descended on mine.

It was different this time; he was less hesitant, less terrified by this new land which we now explored together. One of his hands cradled the back of my head; the other drifted down again to the small of my back. Our kisses were slow, deliberate, almost experimental. Chaste, really, compared to some of the things I had heard about from the girls backstage (though had never done myself). A scandalous little thought struck me – _perhaps I should try giving him the Florentine kiss, just to see what happens –_ but that seemed mildly indecent even for our current situation. _Perhaps later…when we're more comfortable with this, with each other._

I wondered, ever so briefly amidst my tangle of pleasurable thoughts, if I intended to eventually give my body to him at some juncture. The idea had been a subject of unthinkable, abject abhorrence to me not so very long ago, but so too had the idea of kissing him or being kissed by him. I was a changed woman in a great many respects from the one I had been when this all started; it somehow seemed a lifetime ago since he had asked for my hand, even though it had only been a little less than a month. Time had passed so quickly, and I thought with a pang in my heart that it was going to pass more quickly still in the coming days.

 _Still,_ I thought absently even as his hand slid down to my hip, _no need to rush things._ I shivered, but calmly took his hand and put it back in its original place in the hollow of my spine. "Just this," I said, and then added, "for now."

Erik's ordinarily ashen cheeks had spots of color in them now, and he withdrew entirely, sliding away from me on the bench. "Forgive me," he mumbled, and though I very much wanted to pull him back to me, I abstained. "Thank you for being polite, Erik," I said softly. "Thank you for thinking of me."

His eyes darted away from me, and he fiddled with his hands. "You're welcome."

I sat uncertainly on the bench, waiting for I knew not what, and he slowly glanced back in my direction. "Would _you_ sing?" he asked. "I'll play, if you like. No instruction, no exercises. Just music."

I smiled. "If you wish," I said, standing up from the bench again. He began to play a familiar aria but as I opened my mouth to sing, I noticed something and my breath caught before I could think.

"Christine?" he asked, noticing my sudden hesitation at once. "What is it?"

I closed my mouth, trying not to let my face redden. "It's…ah…nothing," I said rather unconvincingly. Erik's eyes narrowed.

" _Christine,_ " he said between his teeth, and I swallowed. "I…well, it's…you have…" I struggled for a moment, trying to find a way to say this that wouldn't offend him. "Ah…that is…it appears that something has been, shall we say…knocked a little askew. Only a _little_ , you understand –"

"What?" he asked confoundedly, and then suddenly he looked even more ashen than usual. "Oh." He straightened up, his hand flying to his slightly crooked false nose. "Pardon me."

"Erik, I don't _mind_ it," I said quickly. "In fact, if you'd rather remove it entirely –"

He shook his head very vehemently at this. "No."

"I can't imagine it's very comfortable," I said in a small voice. Erik's eyes darted back to me, one hand clutching at his false nose, the other searching in his pocket. "More comfortable than the mask, at least," he said, "and _far_ more preferable to being entirely exposed."

"We're not in public," I tried again, and he glowered at me. "No," he replied shortly, "but I am in _your_ company, and I am attempting to be polite."

"Do you seriously imagine –" I began, utterly flummoxed at how he could still doubt me even after we had shared such intimacy – and with his face almost entirely bared, at that. But he snarled " _Christine"_ again with such vehemence that I immediately fell silent. " _Please_ ," he said, his tone ceasing to be furious and taking on a more pleading note, "please allow me this little security, will you, such as it is? Can you at least _attempt_ to respect my wishes on this point?"

My mouth thinned, but I nodded.

"Have you a wash-room?" he asked me, one hand still covering the protrusion affixed to his face, which gradually had begun to tilt more precariously. I pointed. "Down that little hall, to the left." He nodded gratefully and left me there for a few minutes; I sat on the sofa to wait for him.

When he came back, I gave a little start upon seeing him, for he wore his mask again.

"For the life of me," he said irritably, "I could _not_ get it to stick fast again. I think perhaps I shall have to look into procuring a different adhesive." He sat heavily upon the sofa a little distance away from me. He leaned his head back, crossing his arms and tapping his fingers on his elbows while staring intently at the ceiling.

"For heaven's sake, you needn't sulk," I said, feeling mildly annoyed in spite of myself. "I don't see how it makes any difference whether the nose will stick or not."

He turned his head, and his eyes flashed. "No," he retorted, "I suppose you wouldn't. Didn't I ask you not to prod me? _You_ have never lacked for beauty, I am certain. Kindly refrain from offering ill-conceived opinions on matters which you know nothing about."

A little anger rose up in me, but I kept silent. After a few moments, he sat up. "Forgive me," he said. "That was…a trifle harsh, I suppose."

"I spoke unthinkingly," I quietly replied. "I suppose you were well within your rights to speak harshly in return."

He cast his eyes down, and I suddenly hated that dark shield of samite sitting on his face; so much expression was lost beneath it in spite of his exposed mouth, and I was no longer the squeamish girl I had been so long ago. But it was a comfort to him, that black fabric embroidered with silver threads, and I was loathe to destroy all over again the tenuous tendrils of trust which had begun to build between us.

I reached out one hand, and he took it with a sigh. "I should go," he said, and a little jolt of alarm ran through me. "Go?" I repeated dumbly. "Why?"

"I don't belong here," he said in a very subdued voice, "though you have been very generous to invite me."

"Erik, what sort of nonsense is this?" I asked. "Of course I invited you. And you're welcome to stay."

His eyes met mine then, and there was a strange look in them. "Though not after dark, I imagine," he said evenly, and my cheeks flushed; I didn't know what to say. His smile at this was thin and humorless. "I thought not."

"Erik, I…"

" _Perhaps_ , however," he said, interrupting me, " _mademoiselle_ will permit me to call upon her again tomorrow?"

I swallowed. "I have rehearsals until late afternoon," I said, "as I'm sure you know, and – "

"After," he said. "After rehearsals. And don't tell the managers _just_ yet, either, that you've…been married."

"Why not?" I asked, wondering at the strange light in his eyes, the sudden exuberance in his voice.

"Trust me, songbird," he said, his voice weaving warm threads all throughout my body, and I let out a long, shuddering breath. "How can I," I asked quietly, "when I don't even know what I'm trusting you to do?"

"What, shall I spoil the surprise?" he rejoined. "No. Look for a note on your dressing-table tomorrow, Christine, when you've finished. Everything will become more clear then."

I sighed. " _Notes,_ " I said wearily. "Always more notes. Why can you not tell me things plainly in spoken words?"

He flinched, and I immediately felt sorry for having said this. I thought I knew why he enjoyed the theatricality of notes and letters; it was sometimes far easier to write one's thoughts and feelings than to say them aloud. For Erik, I imagined this was magnified tenfold.

"Look for the note tomorrow," he said stiffly, acting as though I had not said what I had. He stood up slowly. "I would be…most gratified if you would follow the instructions contained therein. And now, Mlle. Daaé, I must bid you _adieu_ for the remainder of to-day, as I have an errand or two to run."

"Erik…you don't have to go on my account," I said, standing a little too quickly myself. "Besides…it isn't anywhere close to being dark yet. It's afternoon, only one-thirty. Must you leave?"

"I can't imagine why you should like me to stay," he said, that strange stiffness still infusing his voice, almost choking the beauty of it. "Besides, what would we _do_ , Christine? In my home, there are books to read, instruments to play, music to write. Rooms to retire to if one feels the need to be alone. I am comfortable there. Here…there is little to do but sit, and talk, and that almost invariably leads to either regrettable words or very unseemly inclinations."

I winced at the latter phrase, feeling stung. "I thought you said – earlier, at the piano – that you enjoyed the difference from our usual custom."

"I did, at that moment. There was no lie in that. But now, everything seems so…" He gestured vaguely into the air, as though searching for the correct word. "Complicated," he finally settled on, though a grimace flitted across his mouth as if he found that description to be painfully inadequate. "I beg your pardon, Christine. But I really must be going. Please – " He grasped my hands. "There _will_ be a note, and you _will_ like the surprise – I think. I hope I am not mistaken in this." He swiftly passed his lips over the back of my hand.

Though half of me wanted to force him to sit, wanted to pull from him the kisses I felt were almost making up for lost time, the other half of me glowered at this infuriating enigma of a man, this dark tall shadow that had so effortlessly conquered my life and a portion of my heart. What right had he to commandeer me so, to so easily demand my trust even as he refused to tell me why? What right had he to refuse a perfectly ordinary afternoon in an ordinary flat, aboveground with the sunlight shining through the windows and the wall-paper dry and flat instead of mildly damp and warped? What right had he to tell me he was uncomfortable here, in _my_ home, when he had always expected me to feel comfortable in his?

Halved thusly by confused desire and angry irritation, I scowled and let him pass. He looked very subdued as he headed to the door and took his coat from the hook.

I stood frozen for several moments at the entrance to the sitting-room, but I suddenly trotted after him before I could help myself. "Erik," I said plaintively. "Please."

His eyes were warm, so warm – _I could become so lost in his eyes, lost to his mouth, it isn't FAIR_ , I thought with a little sting of longing – and he bent down to place a single kiss on my forehead, and then another, and another. "Tomorrow, my sweet," he said, his voice husky, making me ache, and then he was gone.

I stood in the door-way for a minute or two, looking after him, that tall dark shape so furtive in its movements. He didn't call into the street for a cab; he disappeared instead down a side-alley and was gone from my view before I could try once more to call him back.

My eyes closed; I withdrew into my flat and closed the door. I wondered wretchedly when Erik's absence had begun to make me feel such an empty space; I felt it in my bones and my muscles, my very blood. I had begun to feel so terribly incomplete when he was not there, and I hated it.

 _I must rid myself of this feeling,_ I thought as tears blurred my vision. _I must. If I cannot, how can I possibly expect to cope when he is gone permanently?_ Lost and wandering in my thoughts, the rest of the day drifted aimlessly away until finally it began to get dark.

Alone in the gathering dusk, my flat felt emptier than it had in ever so long; I suddenly keenly felt the absence of Mama and Emilie, though it had been months since their presence had filled the place. I wept into my pillow like a child that night, beating my fists uselessly into the mattress.

 _Everyone leaves me, in the end,_ I thought. _Everyone. Raoul may never return, or he may not want me when he does. When Erik is gone, I will have no-one left, and I shall be truly alone._


	13. Chapter XIII - Vows

Monday was the first rehearsal for the upcoming production of _Robert le diable._ We wouldn't be performing _Faust_ again for two more nights ( _La Juive_ would play the following night, a production of which I was not a part). I knew why Erik worried for my career; my contract thus far only included two productions, _Faust_ and _Robert_. There was no guarantee that the managers would offer me another, more sizable contract after this next production was finished, nor did I think they would be particularly happy about the understudy for Siebel having to take over the role for the remainder of the run of _Faust_. _Perhaps a compromise,_ I thought, _would be in order…I could alternate performances with my understudy, and have Erik take me into town on the nights which I am to perform. As for the upcoming production…perhaps I might only attend one rehearsal a week, that is if I can convince them to allow me._

Mine was a small role in this production – merely a lady-in-waiting to Carlotta's Princess Isabelle. The role of Robert's half-sister Alice had gone to a relative newcomer named Adèle Dupré, but I was to be her understudy. I was both relieved and stung by the insignificance of my role – relieved that I should have more breathing room to tend to Erik and stay in the country, and stung by the fact that in spite of the praise I had been receiving for my Siebel, I had been passed over for Alice in favor of someone who was even less established at the Opera than I was.

I thought perhaps Carlotta knew something of how I felt; when the roles were announced, she gave me a strangely sympathetic glance. "The singer's life," she said aside to me later. "One never knows what to expect." A little sneer appeared on her lip. "I hear she is a nobleman's bastard, and he has paid handsomely for her to flourish here. Do not take it to heart, _Svedesa_. They will notice you soon enough."

"Thank you, _signora,_ " I replied quietly; I appreciated her kindness to me, although I found myself wanting (but not quite daring) to voice my disapproval of this sort of gossip. Poor Adèle had likely not asked for this, after all, and she no doubt simply counted herself very lucky.

The hustle and bustle of our fellow artists began to swell as everyone gathered in their particular groups to leave the theatre. Upon my thanks, Carlotta gave me a curt little nod before joining her friends.

* * *

 _My dear Christine,_

 _We will discuss the matter of the paltry role you have been given – and what is to be done about it – later this evening; in the meantime, I should very much like to take you to dinner if you would permit me. I have somewhat improved my disguise and I hope to appear a trifle more ordinary to the general populace._

 _I will be outside by the time you have read this; I shall hire a cabriolet upon meeting you there. (I do not intend to sound impertinent or presumptuous in any of this, but as you have always been very obliging to me in matters such as these, I hope you will be, as ever, accommodating of my impulsive request.)_

 _There is no need for you to change, but if you should prefer it, we may stop by your flat first._

[There was a blank space and a little spatter of ink here, as though he had been holding the pen over the paper for too long whilst thinking about what to write, and it had dripped.]

 _Thank you for yesterday._

 _Yours,_

 _E._

* * *

When I went outside to the carriage entrance, I saw him waiting for me. His tall, gaunt frame was easy to recognize, and he wore his false nose again, although this time there was a large moustache beneath it, one which almost entirely obscured his top lip. I didn't know whether to be startled or amused by this new development. As I came closer I perceived that he had donned some kind of additional makeup on his face, presumably with the desired effect being to add some coloring to his ashen skin. It was not altogether unconvincing, though it was a trifle unsettling. Glance at him, and you might be fooled into thinking this was his true appearance, but stare at him for any length of time, and you should become slowly, creepingly aware that something was _not quite right_ about the way he looked.

Still, it wasn't as though strangers were going to remark on it; this was the sort of subtle discomfort that people tended to keep entirely to themselves, the sort of thing that made them vaguely doubt the effectiveness of their own senses. I hadn't any worries that Erik would be the butt of rude stares or idle gossip this evening.

He straightened when he saw me, and as he proffered me his arm, his eyes glowed. "Hello," he said, his voice tinged with soft warmth and a little shyness. I averted my eyes and smiled, feeling strangely shy myself. "Good afternoon, Erik."

"It's almost evening," he remarked, looking at the sky. "Dusk will be upon us in an hour or so. Our dinner might instead turn to supper shortly."

This was apparently Erik's version of attempting to make small talk, but I could think of nothing to say in response, and an awkward silence descended upon us for a few moments before Erik hailed a cab. He helped me in, and I noticed with inexplicably sharp disappointment that he wore gloves.

"I think I should like to stop by my flat after all," I said before he came into the brougham. He nodded and told the driver my address, then seated himself beside me as the driver flicked the reins and the horses' hooves began clattering over the streets.

I swallowed, feeling somewhat inexplicably nervous. "Well," I said uncomfortably, "where shall we go this aftern—evening?"

"I thought we might go to _L'agneau D'or,_ " he said, his gloved hands fiddling in his lap. "I have heard they have an excellent _foie de veau._ "

I grimaced; I had never been very fond of liver, but I said nothing. Erik's fingers tapped out a rhythm on his knees, somewhat muffled by the dark leather gloves he wore. I idly scooted closer to him, feigning nonchalance; out of the corner of my eye I saw him look at me, and his fingers ceased tapping for a moment.

"I am beginning to regret this moustache," he said in a mildly strained voice. I glanced over at him. "Why?"

He shifted. "It seems…an impediment, of sorts. Good for disguising, but not so very good for wooing, I deem."

A little color came up in my face. "I don't mind the way it looks, if that's what you mean," I said.

Erik looked both somewhat amused and embarrassed. "That isn't what I meant, Christine."

"What _did_ you mean?" I asked, although I thought I knew perfectly well.

He lightly took my hand in his gloved fingers and pressed it to his mouth. The hairs of the moustache tickled the back of my hand, though not pleasantly as Raoul's had. Raoul's moustache had been a very little one, soft and fine, not all bush and bristles like this one. I made a face without meaning to, and he chuckled, lifting his head. "You see?" he asked. "Most inconvenient. I would not think of visiting the same torment upon any part of your face."

"Perhaps you should trim it, then," I said blithely, though a slow flush crept up the back of my neck at his words. "If you _must_ have it on at all, that is."

"Perhaps," he said, regarding me with a certain glimmer in his eye. I felt a sudden, inexplicable little tingle of pleasure between my thighs, and I looked away.

Very soon we were at my flat. I hesitated, wondering "I won't be but a moment," I said, "although…I suppose it would be bad manners not to ask you to come in and wait for me inside."

"I…" Erik hesitated for a moment, looking a trifle nervous. "Well. If you're quite certain –"

I nodded shyly, and he got out of the brougham before me, offering me his hand to help me out.

"Wait for us," Erik said to the driver, handing him a few coins. "We will require your services again shortly." The driver nodded, and Erik followed me to my front door while I rifled around in my reticule for the key.

He seemed very close behind me as we entered the flat, almost too close, and my whole body felt on edge, as though I were poised at the precipice of a very high cliff; God only knew what lay at the bottom, whether it was suffering or unimaginable bliss.

I finally turned around, and he regarded me with a very uncertain expression. "You can sit if you'd like," I said somewhat awkwardly, gesturing at the sofa. "I'll…I'll be out in a few minutes." I wondered then why I hadn't simply asked him to wait in the brougham; everything between us at this moment felt so strangely stilted and forced, as though we were putting on an amateur play for an invisible audience rather than simply being ourselves.

I retreated to my bedroom and closed the door, letting out a deep breath. I didn't change my dress, but I put on my gloves and one of Mama's prettier necklaces. She had long ago informed me that I was to have all of her jewelry upon her passing, but I had insofar refrained from wearing any of her things because it seemed too soon, too close – almost disrespectful. But yesterday when I had begun to go through her things, dealing with my own grief and facing it head-on, I had found myself in her room, arranged just as it had been for so many years. I had traced my fingers over her jewelry, missing her at that moment more than I could have possibly found words to explain. Without truly thinking it over, I had taken this necklace from her room and put it in mine. It seemed strangely fitting to wear it now, as though she were a little closer to me for my wearing it. _Help me, Mama,_ I breathed silently. _Help me to know my own mind. Help me to know how to be happy, to stop punishing myself for things both real and imagined._

A pang went through my heart, and I held the pendant up to my cheek, breathing deeply. _And tell God that I will never forgive Him if He lets Erik die._

It was a blasphemous, childish thought, and illogical besides – all men and women had to die sometime. _But I'm not ready for Erik to leave, not so soon,_ I thought. _I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not ready._

I furiously wiped the errant tears from my cheeks. _Weak Christine. Foolish, stupid, weak –_

I heard a knock on my bedroom door, and I jumped. "Christine," Erik's voice said somewhat awkwardly from behind the door, "I don't mean to intrude – this is _your_ abode, after all – but 'a moment' has become fifteen minutes, and I believe our driver is growing somewhat impatient for our return."

"Let him wait, then, or dismiss him to go on his way," I said sharply. "You're paying him, aren't you? What has he to complain about?"

Silence greeted me behind the door, and I suddenly felt very low indeed. I rose from my sitting position on my bed and quickly went to the door to open it. "I'm sorry," I said swiftly, catching sight of Erik's retreating back, "I didn't mean to be so – "

He stopped, turned. "You've been crying," he said with a sharp intake of breath upon seeing me. "Why?"

"It's nothing," I said, wishing I had powdered my face to hide the redness of my cheeks and eyes. "I was just thinking about Mama. It was nothing. I'm sorry."

He regarded me somewhat thoughtfully, as though he were somewhat aware of the fact that I wasn't telling him the whole truth. But to my relief, he let it pass. "And…you are feeling quite all right now?" he asked cautiously. I hesitated for a split second, and then shook my head.

His shoulders slumped a little. "Come here, little dove," he said, holding out his arms, and I melted into his embrace. My face was buried in his jacket and although I shed no more tears, my body shuddered with a few dry sobs. He spoke softly and soothingly to me, murmuring little pleasantries and hollow words of comfort, and he placed several (somewhat scratchy) kisses on the top of my head. "Christine, beautiful Christine," he murmured. "What am I to do with you?"

"Hold me," I mumbled, my words somewhat muffled by his jacket. "And perhaps, bid time to bend about us so that everything else continues on, but we remain, just like this."

"A strange request," he said softly, "and one that I would gladly fulfill were it within the unfortunately limited scope of my power to do so."

"It's well within your power to hold me," I murmured peevishly, being difficult simply because I could, and he laughed. His voice when he spoke again was soft, and – despite the laugh – sad. "I was referring to the latter request, sweeting."

I sighed. "Erik," I said, "Promise me something."

"Anything," he breathed into my hair, "that is within my power to grant."

I closed my eyes. "Fight," I said. "Fight this…illness, this malady that's killing you, whatever it is. Fight it for me. Fight it and win, at least for a while. You've fought your whole life, haven't you, fought to survive? Erik, I know you're tired, I know you don't want to fight anymore, but _you must keep fighting._ Do you understand? I…I need you. I need you to stay. For a while longer, at least. Far longer than a few months."

I felt his body stiffen, felt his slow exhale of breath brush my scalp. "Christine," he said, "songbird, you have no idea what you're asking."

"Erik, _please,_ " I murmured desperately. "Promise you'll try, at least."

He let out another breath, pressed one more kiss to the top of my head, and pulled away. "Time to be going, Christine," he said gently, taking my hand. "Come."

I followed after him mutely, and only let go of his hand to lock the door behind us; the fact that he had not promised anything – not even to _try_ – had not escaped my notice, but I couldn't bring myself to press him now. If I did that, I should almost certainly begin crying again, and I couldn't bear the thought of weeping any more.

He was ever so gentle with me, almost reverent; his hand lightly curved into the small of my back as he helped me inside the brougham and he told the driver where to go.

* * *

 _L'agneau D'or_ was a modest restaurant; we were given a table quickly. I told Erik I would prefer not to attempt the _foie de veau_ and instead ordered more simple fare. Erik ordered only a glass of pinot noir for himself.

"You're not eating?" I asked him, and he shrugged. "I'm not hungry," he said matter-of-factly. I raised one eyebrow. "Then why come here? I'm not asking to be difficult, I really am genuinely curious."

Erik glanced furtively around us, almost as if to ensure that no one was staring or listening. He needn't have worried; we had managed to get a fairly secluded table in the corner of the restaurant, away from the mix and bustle of other patrons. "Why do you think?" he asked me. "I wanted to see what it's like – going out in public, sitting at a table with – " He broke off, looking a trifle embarrassed.

I slowly reached my hand across the table, palm up. He took it, and I thought to myself – selfishly, I knew – that in a great many ways, going out in public with him was something of a nuisance. We wore gloves, as fashion and custom decreed, and he wore that ridiculous false moustache in an attempt to better blend in. All of these things kept him from me, kept him hidden and oddly inaccessible. I had begun to grow so accustomed to the feel of his palm against mine, his fingers entwined in my fingers, that the barrier formed by our gloves felt _wrong_ now, like a wall that should never have been built.

With sudden resolve, I slid my hand from his and then deftly slipped my glove off. I held my hand out again, bared this time, and Erik's eyes lighted on mine with a strange look in them. Without the slightest need for words, I knew he understood.

He slowly pinched and pulled on one finger of his glove at a time, continuing to look directly at me as he very gradually slid the soft leather casing from his hand. Why my breathing should have quickened somewhat at this was entirely beyond me, but I could not in the least deny it; I could feel a flush rise in my face as his bared fingers reached forward and cradled mine.

Erik said nothing, but continued looking at me, quite contemplative in his overall expression. I didn't know exactly _what_ he was thinking, but I knew he was pondering me, trying to assess me and take the measure of me, just like when he was drawing up plans for some new machine or a new building that might never actually be built. It was the _idea_ of creation which seemed to please him more than anything, the very motion of it – seeing his thoughts spill out onto paper beneath the sharp nub of a pen dipped in ink. I had seen those fingers stained with ink so many times, dark dyed splotches like bruises upon his skin. Every so often I had seen his fingers fly across the page in the midst of composition, a strangely beautiful and maddening process to watch. He hardly ever composed while I was in his house, but when he did, he ignored me almost entirely. I was very secondary indeed to the music racing through his head and flowing out like water from his fingertips. Whether it was with ink, or piano keys, or the strings of his violin, his hands were always in motion when he composed, always moving, never still for a single moment.

"Erik," I said suddenly, "I think we ought to bring Mama's piano to the little house."

He regarded me thoughtfully. "Yes," he said, "I daresay we ought, if it pleases you. It would certainly give me an occupation when I grow bored. I'd bring mine, but it would be a sight easier to move your piano from your flat than to have mine moved from the hole in the ground beneath the Opera."

"I've often wondered about that," I said curiously. "How _did_ you manage to get all that furniture moved there in the first pl– "

At that moment, my steaming dinner arrived, and in my hunger I forgot what I had been going to ask. Erik watched me with something like amusement on his face as I removed my other glove and tucked into my food as politely and yet as swiftly as I could manage.

"Pardon me for interrupting," he said, "but I have been meaning to mention – that necklace is very becoming on you. I have never seen you wear it before."

"It was Mama's," I said, almost shamefully. "She said I could have it. But I never could bring myself to wear it, before this."

"Ah," he said. "And is that why you were so upset, in your flat? The necklace – it brought back memories?"

"Yes," I said. "That was part of the reason."

Erik regarded me calmly while sipping his wine, but to my relief made no comment.

"As to the question you attempted to ask earlier," he said eventually, "I hired some men to help me move all of it. Men who didn't ask questions, or live anywhere nearby. Still, I took precautions against them and others when I was through, which is why I have such elaborate locks on my doors and traps scattered throughout the cellars. The Communards, in particular, made such precaution absolutely necessary." He took a slightly more violent sip of wine at this. "Little need to worry about them now, a decade after the war, but vigilance has been nothing but a very good teacher of mine, and I have learnt its lessons very well indeed."

I had questions for him, so many questions about the war and what his place – or lack thereof – had been in it, questions about his work, about how he had built his house, about how he had come to live here in Paris. But the questions were so many in number that they tangled in my head, and I didn't know where to begin or how to refrain from being impolite in asking them. I knew he didn't like being barraged by inquiries, and so I kept silent, eating my food and making it clear by my expression that I was listening to him intently.

"You are beautiful even when you eat," he said at length, and I blushed. "Don't be embarrassed, Christine," he said. "It's true."

"You know I've never taken compliments well," I said. "It's a fatal flaw."

"I somewhat enjoy that flaw, if you'll pardon my impertinence," he replied, averting his eyes for a moment. "It's part of your charm that you sometimes have little to no idea of how alluring you are."

I blushed even more deeply at this. "So," I said, a little startled at my own boldness, "women who are confident in their appearance or talents are unattractive?"

"I didn't say that," he said, furrowing his brow. "Nor do I believe it. I said it was part of _your_ charm that you tend to be somewhat unaware of your own beauty. Some women's charm _is_ in their confidence – Sorelli is one of those women, if you haven't noticed, though I certainly take no interest in her myself. As much as I have often been tempted to think all women are alike – and have, foolishly, sometimes pronounced utterances to that effect – it is an undeniable fact of nature that not all women are remotely the same, though many of them share similar traits. Not that I have known very many, mind you. Most of my conclusions about women come from rather distant observation, seeing how they interact with others."

"You speak of the members of my sex as though we were experiments, objects of research," I said blithely. "Animals, being looked at in a zoo."

Erik shrugged. "One does what one can to gather a better sense of the world about them. Not everyone in this world is blessed with a profound skill in social interaction, particularly when their very physiognomy renders them highly unsuitable for public life."

I averted my eyes from him, not sure of what to say.

"In my rather limited interactions with men," I said carefully, "I have made similar findings – that they aren't all the same, but many of them do share certain traits in common."

Erik leaned back a little in his chair. "Such as?" he asked coolly, but with some interest.

I put my fork down. "Assumption," I said. "Arrogance. I think it has something to do with the opinion of men's superiority over women. Of course these attitudes appear in widely differing degrees, depending on the man."

"Interesting," he said, regarding me curiously. "Do you find _me_ to be assumptive and arrogant?"

My cheeks flushed a little again. "Sometimes, yes. I did. In the old days. Not so much now." I paused. "Usually."

Erik let out a little laugh, although he now seemed a trifle self-conscious, and motioned the waiter over for another glass of wine.

"I have something for you," he said when the waiter had filled his glass and gone. He took a long sip of his wine, and as he put the glass down, his hand shook almost imperceptibly. "For…for us. Hopefully you don't find it presumptuous of me to offer it. I should have offered it already, perhaps, long before this, but I thought…I didn't know if…"

"Erik," I said calmly, putting my hand over his, and his nervousness stilled somewhat. "It's all right. What is it?"

He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a little wooden box, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and small enough to fit in his palm. "I made this some time ago, and altered the inside to more aptly fit its new contents this morning," he said with some pride. He handed the box to me across the table and fairly ducked back into his seat, his body radiating uncertainty.

"It's beautiful," I said, and the corner of his mouth turned up. I slowly opened the box. Two rings were nestled inside on a bed of velvet, both plain gold.

I looked at him questioningly. He fidgeted. "One is for me," he said somewhat uncomfortably. "The other, of course, is for you. The one at the top, nearest the hinge." I had not seen him so shrinking and hesitant since his proposal a month ago – _has it really only been that long?_ I thought. I sat in my chair very quietly, looking at the rings and then at him, caught in a sudden moment of indecision.

"You asked me, yesterday, to give you a ring," he said somewhat defensively. "Suggested it, at any rate. I thought I would oblige. As I said, I apologize for not having done this in the first place, but like you, I didn't know if you wanted our newly married status to be publicly known. It should perhaps have been a topic of discussion between us much earlier than this, but the past can't be changed now, can it?"

It had seemed so natural and obvious yesterday, the idea of wearing a wedding-ring, showing myself to be married. But I found myself caught now in an unexpected struggle. Making my marriage widely known might, as he had mentioned before, affect my privacy. People might treat me differently, ask me all sorts of questions. I wasn't at all sure I wanted that. There was also the strange, creeping feeling that the rings somehow symbolized a much deeper level of commitment to this whole affair than I felt myself ready for. But my eyes glanced upward to meet Erik's, and to see him sitting there so paralyzed, so nervous and hopeful, sent a pang through my heart. I felt very low all of a sudden.

"We should wait to put these on," I said gently, "until we get back to my flat. Or your house underground, whichever you would prefer."

Erik fidgeted again. "Your house too, now," he murmured. "Not just mine." I regarded him frankly. "Then that means," I said, "that it's also your flat. Not only mine."

He gave a little start at this. "I wouldn't dream of usurping that place," he said. "You lived there, with your surrogate parents. There is nothing of mine that belongs there. But you – so much of you is there, down below. Your room, your clothes – "

"All things which you purchased for me," I said coolly. "Shall I purchase some things for you, so that you might occasionally live comfortably aboveground?"

"Ha!" he said, a short, sharp bark of a laugh accompanied by a wide, unaccustomed grin. I pretended not to notice his amusement at my sardonic reply, and shut the box. "It's settled, then," I said. "We'll put them on when we're away from all these prying eyes. I'll leave it up to you to decide where we go after this."

"Are people looking at us?" he asked with a little scowl, turning his head to see. "I might have known – "

"I didn't mean that anyone was looking at us _now,_ Erik, only that they _might,_ " I sighed. "I'd rather not make a spectacle out of these rings. It doesn't mean that I'm ashamed, not hardly, it's only…I want it to be just us. Is that all right?"

He looked at me, and his expression was somewhat thoughtful but otherwise difficult to read. "We could have a proper little ceremony," he said, "you and I. I don't mean anything overly formal, mind you, no frills or frippery, but we could – "

He paused, swallowed, and looked away, as though he had thought better of whatever it was he had been planning to say. I placed the box on the table and once more grasped his hand. "Tell me," I said gently.

"We could – exchange vows," he said in what was almost a mumble. After a moment, when I remained silent, he looked at me again. "The way some people do in a cathedral, or a church. But no God would be involved, Christine, no priest or audience – just us. As you said. You and I, speaking the words, no witnesses required but ourselves."

I flexed my hand in his a little. My breath hitched in my throat. "I – " I felt pinioned once more, sucked down by a morass of unspoken words, unable to squirm away from that wide, earnest gaze across the table which both tenderly held and burned me all at the same time. This was limbo, surely, this half-life where I could never seem to discern what I wanted from what was right. "Very well," I finally managed, my voice little more than a whisper. "I don't see why not."

"I will never," he said, his voice a low murmur, his eyes a fixated flame, "ask anything of you which you do not offer willingly in return, Christine. Do you understand? Your vows are your own. You need not utter or promise anything which you find discomfiting. We need not do this little ceremony we speak of at all, if it does not please you. The rings can stay in the box, simple decorations. We need not ever put them on if you do not wish it. And if you _do_ wish to put them on – know that you are not agreeing to anything, _anything at all,_ to which you have not already agreed."

I took his meaning well enough. Somewhat to my uneasy surprise, I felt myself relax, having not even realized how strangely tensed and on edge I had become from the moment I had heard him speak of exchanging vows. He had seen it, however, had clearly seen my hesitance and my somewhat panicked indecision; otherwise I deemed he would not have made that little speech calculated to comfort and reassure.

I wanted to say something, but instead I merely nodded, and let go of his hand to pick up the box, which I slid inside my reticule.

"May we…may we go?" I murmured. "The air in here seems very close all of a sudden, and I think a breath of fresh air might do me good."

Erik gave a stiff little nod and snapped his fingers to get the attention of a nearby waiter. "The bill, please," he said.

* * *

Dusk had indeed fallen outside; the sky was darkened, the horizon streaked with the last bit of pink from the sunset. I had stowed my gloves in my reticule, but I put them back on due to the light chill in the air. Erik put his back on as well.

"I have been…very ill-mannered of late, it seems," he said, not looking at me. "If I have offended you, I apologize. That business about exchanging vows…you probably ought to forget I ever mentioned it."

"Erik, it isn't…you didn't offend me, I…it's just that this is all so new," I said uncomfortably. "So…different. I'm still trying to sort so many things out as they happen. And I don't wish to offend you either. I don't wish to hurt you."

Erik winced at this last bit. "Spare me your pity, Christine," he said with an edge in his voice, as I had belatedly known there would be the moment I uttered those words.

I straightened. "Why?" I asked quietly. "Why should I? Why should I apologize for taking your feelings into account?"

He grimaced again. "My _feelings_ are not for you to worry about," he said curtly. "They are none of your concern."

"Erik, I'm your _wife_ –" I began vehemently, but he gave me such a look at this that I fell silent almost at once.

Erik turned from me and quickly hailed a cab. "Get in," he said flatly to me when the driver pulled over to our side. "I'll find my own way. You ought to go home."

I stared at him with a stony stubbornness. "Perhaps I ought," I said. I turned to the driver and drew out my coin-purse, ignoring Erik's sudden move to protest my paying for my own ride. "To the Opera," I said. "The Rue Scribe side, if you would be so kind." I dropped the coins into the driver's hand. "The two of you, _mademoiselle?_ " he asked. "Or will it just be yourself?"

I turned my head slightly to glance at Erik. "Two, if his pride can stomach it," I said calmly, feeling Erik's growing astonishment with every passing moment. The driver grinned at me, looked at Erik, and shrugged. "Not my place to comment, I'm sure," he said, "but I rather think you'd be a fool to let this one get away from you, _monsieur._ "

Erik narrowed his eyes. "You are correct – it is _not_ your place to comment," he said coldly. "Kindly keep your opinions to yourself."

The driver's smile faded, and he shrugged. I scowled at Erik and climbed into the carriage without assistance, irritably adjusting my skirts when I sat down. After a long moment, he climbed in after me, his own irritation palpable as he shut the cab door. He sat across from me, glowering. I regarded him calmly.

"You should have let me pay," he said at last. I shrugged. "I do have my own money," I said placidly. "Although I appreciate your frequent assistance, I sometimes find I like providing for myself. And you, when it comes to it."

"I am unaccustomed to having a woman pay for my ride in a cabriolet," Erik said somewhat stiffly, and then added, "As would most men be, I'd imagine."

I shrugged, stifling a smile. _But you, Erik, are decidedly not most men,_ I thought, although I didn't say it.

The rest of the ride passed in relative silence until we reached the Rue Scribe. We disembarked, and I thanked the driver; Erik said nothing, but waited until the driver was gone to lead me to the gate and produce the key. "If you'd like," he said, "I'll have a copy of this made for you to keep on your person. In case of emergencies."

"What sort of emergencies?" I asked uncomfortably, but Erik, opening the gate, didn't reply.

When we reached the house and Erik opened the door, I turned to him. "You should show me that, too," I said with sudden resolve. "How to open the locks."

Erik stood very still, and I saw him swallow. He let the door swing shut behind him. "Yes," he said. "I suppose I should, at that. Later."

I regarded him curiously. "It's uncomfortable for you," I mused aloud. "Giving your secrets to another person. Even me."

He brushed past me, hanging his coat on the hook. "Yes."

I didn't press the matter. Erik sat down awkwardly on one side of the sofa and looked at me somewhat expectantly. I hung up my wrap and joined him.

"We should discuss your role in _Robert le diable,_ " he said, and I noticed that his stance, his demeanor, was very much Erik the Teacher, not Erik the Husband at all. He was leaning a little away from me, arms crossed, all business.

"What about it?" I asked. "It's small, yes, but it will give me some breathing room over the next several weeks."

"You deserve the role of Alice," he said firmly. "Not a lady-in-waiting. We simply _must_ obtain Alice for you, Christine."

I shook my head. "Were this under ordinary circumstances," I said, "I would be inclined to defer to you. But in this particular case I cannot agree."

"Christine," he said, his voice turning quite stern, "your ambition is suffering again."

I shook my head. "This has nothing to do with my ambition, or lack thereof," I replied. "It has everything to do with you."

"Am I to understand," he asked slowly, and in a somewhat indignant tone, "that you are suggesting that _I_ am to blame for your sudden lack of motivation toward your art?"

"Erik, I want to be with you," I said, a little color coming into my cheeks. "I want to spend time with you. All the ambition in the world would lend me nothing if I waste all of our remaining days at practice."

Erik sat very still. "And what of your career?" he asked.

"I'm not quitting the Opera, if that's what you mean," I said. "I'd concocted a sort of plan to meet with the managers and request that my understudy take over my role for every other performance, rather than for the rest of the run as you and I had originally planned. We can go to the country for a few days at a time in this way, and come back for performances of _Faust_ and rehearsals for _Robert._ I'm also going to ask them if I can be allowed only one rehearsal per week."

Erik shifted. "I believe I can help to arrange that," he said. "But not as the Ghost. I want to help arrange it as a man."

I looked at him curiously, feeling a sudden tingle in my spine. "What do you mean?"

"I'll go to meet with your managers. With you. By your side, as your husband." His face flushed a little. "If you'll permit me."

"I…yes, if you feel perfectly comfortable," I said with some astonishment. "I should like you to be there with me. Very much."

Erik's demeanor suddenly became very reticent, and though there was a small smile playing upon his mouth, he turned his head as though he were embarrassed. "Thank you."

I reached out to touch his arm, feeling the sharp wiriness of it right through the sleeve, and he shuddered but didn't move. The urge to touch and be touched came upon me with overwhelming suddenness, and I slowly slid my hand up his arm. Erik's head tilted back a little, and I could see his eyes close.

"I want to put the rings on now," I said softly, "if you'd like." Erik's eyes opened, and he nodded mutely.

I took the box from my reticule and opened it. Erik's hand flashed out, taking my ring out first. "Allow me," he said, and a slow warmth bloomed in my chest as he took my hand and slipped the ring onto my finger. "It fits," I said with some measure of surprise. "Perfectly. How did you – "

Erik looked down for a moment. "Some time ago," he said, "I had you measure the individual diameters of your fingers for me – all of them – under the pretense of buying you gloves, do you remember?"

I blinked. "I do," I said. "That was – what, two months ago? I thought it was strange that you wouldn't simply have asked me my glove size, but I thought you were in one of your odd moods, and I felt no reason not to humor you. You never did buy me gloves, and I wondered why, but I thought you forgot."

"Well…" he said, and he tapped his fingers nervously on his knees, "that was because…I never had any intention of buying you gloves to begin with. I went through a great many stages of wishing to propose marriage, and that was one of them. The only measurement I really wanted was your ring finger, but I didn't want to let you know that, of course. I had notions of buying a ring then, and ultimately decided against it, but I kept the measurement written on a scrap of paper in case I ever found myself in need of it. I apologize. It was…rather underhanded of me, the whole thing, I admit."

I furrowed my brow, and then laughed softly. "Yes," I said, "it was, but it was before your promise never to lie to me again – so as long as you'll keep to that promise, I'll happily forgive you."

I saw little spots of color in Erik's cheeks. "Yes. Thank you." He hesitated for a moment. "Is it…would it be acceptable, to…" He swallowed. "I find I still like the idea of something resembling a little ceremony. You certainly do not need to make any vows in turn, but I would very much like if you would permit me to say a few words."

My own cheeks felt very warm indeed, and I nodded a little breathlessly. Erik clasped my ring hand, and took the other in his as well. His hands shook, but his voice was strangely calm and he steadily held my gaze. "I, Erik Deschamps, take thee, Christine Daaé, to be my wife, my companion and my confidante, my salvation. My love, my joy, my redemption from a long solitary life filled with regrets. I promise never to be a burden beyond that which you can bear, to never make you sorrowful by anything within my power to do or say. I pledge my love, my care, my trust and my protection. I pledge my very soul and place it in your hands, _min gudinna._ "

My eyes shimmered with tears. "I never taught you how to say 'my,'" I said with a little astonishment. Erik's gaze never left mine. "I learned," he said. "From a little phrasebook I picked up not long ago. Did I pronounce it correctly?"

I nodded. "Perfectly," I whispered, and then leaned forward and lifted myself up a bit so that I could reach his mouth. It was a soft kiss, warm and full of promise, and he sighed between my lips; his hands never left mine. I tried not to mind the bristles of the false moustache.

At length, I pulled back and he moved to take his own ring out of the box, but I took it out first. "My turn," I said firmly, and his lips parted ever so slightly as I slid his ring onto his finger while gently holding his hand. I marveled at the slenderness of his fingers, their length, the dexterity with which I had so often seen them perform in various capacities. They were so unusual, almost unsettling, but strangely beautiful in their way – and that last thought made me blush a little.

I paused for a long moment while gathering my thoughts for the next task I had in mind.

"I, Christine Daaé," I said at last, and I heard his swift intake of breath, though I kept my eyes fixed on his hands for a moment, "take thee, Erik Deschamps, to be my husband, my helpmeet, my partner in all things. I pledge my own trust, my devotion and dedication, my understanding and my…" I paused, taking a breath. "My heart," I said in what was almost a whisper, and though I was speaking metaphorically, the real thing gave a painful little clench in my chest as I spoke, though whether in warning or in sadness I couldn't say. "I promise to care for you through any and all of the days ahead, both the light and the dark. I will be with you and stay where you stay. And…as you have entrusted me with your soul, your heart, so I entrust you with mine." _And again I pray I won't regret it,_ I thought, a little flicker of panic mixing in with the warmth.

Erik closed the box, put it aside. He took my hands in his and stared at the rings on my finger and his for a moment, and then looked at me with a depth of feeling which nearly took my breath away. There were no more words for several moments; we needed none. I could feel our pulses joined together between our still-clasped hands, and I fiercely imagined my own health passing to him, as though I could make him well by touch and strength of will alone.

Erik somewhat reluctantly let go of my hands after some time and stood up. "Wait here, Christine," he said softly, and then went to his room and partially shut the door. After some minutes had passed, during which I sat very uncertainly on the sofa waiting for his return, he emerged once more, his manner somewhat more hesitant.

My eyes flicked up to his face; the false moustache had been removed. The pale, near-translucent skin above his upper lip was more than a trifle reddened where the moustache had previously been stuck fast; I winced as I imagined him removing it.

I saw Erik swallow, and his eyes darted about the room for a moment as though he were very nervous indeed. After a moment he sat down again beside me; although his hands folded neatly atop his lap, I saw his fingers quiver a little.

"I…want something," he whispered. "Will you give it to me?"

The corners of my mouth curved up – oh, how very far we had come indeed since he had first uttered those words to me so many days ago. "That depends on what you want," I murmured again, as I had then, though this time I was somewhat more confident that my answer would be yes. Surely he would simply be asking for more kisses or touches.

Erik closed his eyes for a moment. "Rules do change, sometimes, don't they?" he asked, and he sounded so hesitant, so oddly afraid, that I suddenly wondered what exactly it was that he was planning to ask me. The air seemed to still. "I…well, yes," I said slowly, uncertainly. "If you're referring to _our_ rules, they've already changed quite a bit since the beginning, have they not?"

Erik nodded, his eyes darting about the room and looking almost anywhere but me. "Yes. And…and in that event…since some rules have already changed…perhaps _other_ rules are not quite so set in stone, and there's no shame in me asking, merely to…to perhaps…re-evaluate my position. Is there?"

"Erik, what are you trying to ask me?" I queried, my throat feeling a little tight. Everything felt very close, too close, like that word he had told me about, the one he had used to describe how he sometimes felt _boxed in._

"I…" Erik pressed his fingers to his lips, and shook his head. "No. I can't. I shouldn't ask. I won't. Forgive me. Forget that I – "

"Erik, just _ask_ ," I said suddenly, a profound anxiety rising up inside of me. "The worst thing I can say to whatever it is you want is _no_ , and if I do, I shan't be cruel about it. You know I won't."

Erik closed his eyes, took a long breath. "I want…I want…" He shuddered. "I wouldn't _touch_ you, you understand…not much, or not at all. I…you are staying here tonight, correct?"

I nodded slowly. Erik's fingers twitched a little where they rested on his face, his whole body exuding a type of overwhelming nervousness I had not seen in him for some time. "I want to sleep beside you," he said in a rush. "I want to see your face upon waking. I want to know that, what that feels like. _Just_ that, nothing else. And, as I said, I wouldn't – I wouldn't even be _near_ you, if you didn't want me to."

I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding. "Oh, Erik," I said softly, feeling a faint sense of relief, mixed with more uncertainty. _It wasn't quite what I had begun to think he was going to ask. But even if he_ had _asked for…that…what would I have said? Would I have said yes? And what about this? Easier to assent to than the other, perhaps, but…_

He fixed his eyes on me, looking more than a trifle terrified. I swallowed and looked down at my hands. "Which room?" I asked quietly. I heard a little hiss of air between Erik's teeth but I didn't look up. "Pardon me?" he queried faintly.

"Which room?" I asked a little more loudly. "Which room would you prefer us to sleep in? Mine, or – or yours?" This felt so terribly strange, it felt embarrassing and altogether too much to be asking these words aloud, but I thought idly to myself that it might not be so terrible sleeping with him very close by…it might even be rather pleasant, to have him so close. Although a trifle dangerous, perhaps, to spur on that void that increasingly seemed to be left by the lack of his presence. How much _greater_ would that terrible void become upon his passing if I became accustomed to sleeping in the same room? How much more would I desperately miss his absence when he was no longer there? That is, if he even meant for this arrangement to occur for more than one night. He seemed, now that I thought of it, to be only asking for it to happen once.

I chanced a glance at Erik, and he was sitting very still, regarding me with wide, astonished, mildly fearful eyes. "Which…ah…which would _you_ prefer?" he asked, his voice almost a mumble from behind his hand.

I bit my lip and shrugged. "Mine," I said, making a snap decision. Choosing his room somehow seemed a trifle too forward, for some reason.

Erik nodded stiffly. He looked away again, and took his hand down from his mouth. "I…well. Thank you. You are so…so very kind, Christine. I don't…I don't deserve…" He trailed off. "Thank you," he said again.

I stood up very suddenly, hating all this awkwardness, and he started like a spooked animal. "I'm not tired yet," I said. "It's still quite early in the evening…I would, however, like to change. And then perhaps you can show me some of those card tricks of which you're so fond, and I can make tea, and we can talk."

Erik regarded me as if he didn't quite know me, and he drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. "That sounds…very agreeable," he said, his voice strangely strained. I nodded and briefly touched his hand with mine to reassure him before I left to go to my room. I felt his eyes on me as I went, and as a little swarm of butterflies seemed to stir in my stomach, I thought to myself that marriage to Erik was proving to be a strange and unpredictable new country indeed.


	14. Chapter XIV - The Stubbornness of Women

Once I had entered my bedroom and shut the door, I removed my outer dress and donned my dressing-gown over my under-clothes instead; it was one of the most comfortable and extravagant articles of clothing I owned. The long silken sleeves were cool and comforting against the skin of my bare arms, and I loved the dripping lace ruffles at the ends of the sleeves and down the front of the bodice. I might have felt more comfortable – or at least, more covered – under Erik's gaze with a higher neck, but the actual neck of the dressing-gown didn't dip very low, for all that; it was an altogether modest garment which revealed nothing that wouldn't be seen during the course of an ordinary day. After some contemplation, I took off my boots, which had begun to hurt my feet, and replaced them with a pair of comfortable lady's slippers.

The pins in my hair were beginning to feel like tiny, dull daggers in my skull, and I wrestled for a moment as to whether it would seem too forward or too intimate for me to let my hair down under the circumstances. I remembered well the way he had looked at me the last time I had forgotten to leave it pinned, in my dressing-room. _I'm going to have to let it down at some point,_ I finally thought. _I can't very well sleep with it all pinned up like this, and that means he's going to see it anyway. Better to simply do it now, I suppose, for comfort's sake._

I carefully took the pins out from my hair and laid them on my vanity table, shaking it loose from its confines and breathing a deep sigh of relief. _Besides,_ came a rather treacherous, though not unpleasant thought, _if it's unbound…perhaps…_ The memory came back to me of his cool, slender fingers sliding through my hair while reclining on the sofa, and a little shiver went through me as I blushed to the roots. I put both hands on my cheeks for a moment to cool them.

When I had sufficiently collected myself, I took a deep breath and opened my bedroom door. Upon my return to the drawing-room, I paused in the doorway; Erik was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, wearing his own dressing-gown over his clothes, the sort of thing a gentleman might wear whilst reading books in his study and writing correspondence. The fabric was a deep red, covered in embroidered paisley designs, and the collar and cuffs appeared to be satin. He had also changed his trousers, it seemed; these were looser and a bit wider about the ankles and the fabric matched the dressing-gown, though his shoes remained the same. I had only seen him wear this sort of thing very rarely, but even so, I didn't know why it should feel so strangely intimate that I should be seeing him wear it now. He also wore his mask, to my chagrin, although at least it was the one which showed his mouth. _He must have taken off the false nose,_ I thought, _and of course he didn't want me to see._

I dragged myself out of my reverie and noticed Erik looking at me; while I had been regarding him with something akin to startled curiosity, Erik's eyes were fixating on me in a way that stirred a tingle of warmth in my abdomen and the hollow of my spine. I swallowed and pretended not to notice. "I'll just…I'll go make the tea, then," I said uncomfortably, and left for the kitchen.

Upon reaching it, I suddenly realized that I was somewhat at a loss; I knew perfectly well how to make coffee in the percolator at home, but I hadn't any idea of how to operate a samovar; upon further inspection of his cupboards, it seemed he hadn't any other way of making tea.

" _Confound_ it," I exclaimed a little too loudly, lifting the strange little metal tea-pot from the top of the samovar and helplessly looking at the rest of it in confusion. I was beginning to swallow my pride just enough to go back to the drawing-room and request Erik's assistance when I suddenly heard movement behind me, and quickly turned. I was only half-surprised to see him standing in the doorway.

Erik seemed to have already gathered some inkling of my trouble; he glanced at me for only a moment, and there seemed to be a vaguely amused quirk to his mouth. "Allow me," he said, and I stepped back to give him room. I could feel spots of humiliation warming my cheeks; I could have already asked him a hundred times how to work the samovar in the course of our acquaintance, and I never had. I felt dull and stupid.

He went through the motions deftly, but slowly and deliberately, clearly making sure I could see what he was doing; I didn't know if it was worse or better that he didn't outright tell me that he was instructing me in the samovar's usage.

After he had begun boiling the water he had poured into the larger part of the samovar, he inclined his head toward the table and chairs in the corner. "Sit," he said, and his voice was firm but gentle. I wordlessly complied, my eyes drifting idly to his hands as he tapped his fingers lightly on the counter. He continued facing the stove, not looking at me. My gaze traveled up from his hands, tracing the long lean lines of him, regarding him with such different eyes than I had only weeks prior. I wondered what lying in the same bed with him would be like. Would my legs accidentally brush against his, or his against mine? Would he lightly trace the shape of me in the air when I was turned away from him and he thought I wouldn't notice, his fingers a hair's-breadth away from my body?

My own fingers gripped the table-top and I felt my breath hitch in my throat. I turned away, fixing my gaze on the wood-grain of the table, willing those ridiculous, wayward thoughts from my head. But they lingered, and would not leave – a tumble of wild wickedness had begun to flow through my imagination like poisoned sugar, deadly dangerous and yet irresistibly sweet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Erik fill the teapot with tea leaves and steaming water from the samovar's spigot, and then he placed the teapot on top of the samovar again. "It will have to steep for a bit," he said, and then joined me at the table. I kept my eyes low, looking only at his sleeves instead of him, not wanting my strange, wanton thoughts to show on my face.

"You're very quiet, little bird," he said softly. I swallowed and laced my fingers together. "Am I?" I asked. "I don't mean to be."

Erik shifted in his chair. "If the idea of this…arrangement…unsettles you," he said, "you need feel no obligation whatsoever to keep to it. You need do nothing that gives you discomfort merely to please me. You already know I don't want that. I've never wanted it."

"I know," I said. "It doesn't unsettle me."

"Look me in the eyes, then, and tell me that," he said with a little unexpected vehemence. I flicked my gaze up to meet his. "It doesn't unsettle me," I repeated firmly, and some of the tension in Erik's frame appeared to dissipate.

"In lieu of card tricks," he said at last, "for which I find I'm not particularly in the mood this evening, I thought perhaps you might like me to read to you."

A smile flitted across my face. "I might. You haven't done that for quite some time."

He nodded, and I noted that there seemed to be a certain distracted air about him, as though he were very preoccupied with something in his head. Thinking it couldn't hurt to ask, and curious as to the response, I leaned forward a little, my hands folded in front of me on the table. "What are you thinking about?" I queried, and I thought I saw his eyes grow a little wide, almost as if he'd been caught at something. "Nothing of consequence," he said rather unconvincingly. "I…I believe the tea should be ready now, at least to your liking. You never did prefer it very strong, did you?" I shook my head.

"No, I didn't think so," he said as he got up from the table; he continued talking in a rather rambling tone as he poured the tea from the pot into a little cup for me. "I prefer it stronger and more bitter myself, simply because of my rather fickle gustatory sense. You won't mind, will you, if I don't yet pour for myself? I'd rather let it brew a bit longer, if that's quite all right."

"Erik, you needn't be embarrassed on my account," I said with a faint trace of amusement. "It's your house, and your samovar."

"Yours too," he said with a swift glance at me. "Everything I have will be yours when I'm gone."

I looked down at the table and said nothing.

"Two cubes of sugar?" he asked me, and I nodded. I saw him turn off the stove. "The samovar holds its heat quite well," he said, noticing me looking at him.

As he brought me the cup, my mind began swirling again and I pursed my lips. "Erik, I know this is a somewhat…delicate subject, but what am I to _do_ with everything…after? You have an entire life collected down here. That's not so easy to pack up and move, and I cannot imagine leaving it all to rot."

Erik shrugged. "Christine, I'll be dead," he said quite matter-of-factly, ignoring my visible wince. "I won't care _what_ you do with my things by then, quite frankly. I shan't exactly be in a position to protest."

I blew on my tea and sipped it slowly, though it was something of an effort for my hands not to shake.

"If you like, you can give whatever you wish to the daroga," he said unconcernedly. "Give away, leave here, or sell – that will be entirely up to you, my dove. I won't concern myself with such nitpicking details in my will."

I nodded, trying to be as calm as he was and failing miserably. "I don't know how you can be so cavalier about it," I said at last after I had taken another sip of tea, my voice trembling.

One corner of Erik's mouth turned up faintly. "I've had plenty of time to come to terms with my impending demise, my dear. I am attempting – somewhat ham-handedly, perhaps – to acclimate you to it as well. But I also think you should know that my own attitude toward the subject is not always so placid as it appears. Some days, I – " He broke off and absently began drumming his fingers again. My tea had cooled marginally enough that I abruptly swallowed the whole lot, trying to quiet the painful emotions thundering in my heart and brain.

"I wonder, sometimes," he said slowly, "if…the dead can dream. I don't quite know what to find more terrifying – the idea of no longer existing at all, or the idea of existing bodiless, voiceless, forever – and being fully conscious of it."

"Erik, _please,_ " I said at last, setting down my tea-cup so swiftly and somewhat violently that it was nearly a _slam_. Thankfully it was sturdy porcelain and neither cracked nor shattered. "I know…I know it might help you, to talk about it…but I can't. Not yet. I haven't…I'm not ready. Is that…" I swallowed, blinking back tears. "Is that dreadful of me?"

Erik rose from the table; I thought for a moment that he was going to check the status of the tea on the samovar again but instead he came straight to me, leaning one hand on the back of my chair and the other on the table as he looked directly into my eyes. The old Christine would have quailed at such closeness, but the new Christine didn't find it at all unpleasant. "No, my tender-hearted one," he said gently, "you are _not_ dreadful. Not in the least. And you must forgive me my crassness when I speak of such things. I…am aware, though not always consciously so, that it is a very sensitive topic of conversation for you." He slowly passed the backs of his fingers over my cheek, and I closed my eyes. This all seemed very bold of him, all of a sudden; although he was still exuding shyness, his mood had changed drastically from the bundle of nerves he had been only minutes before. _And what do you expect?_ I thought to myself. _Erik's moods, his demeanor and attitude, can all change as swiftly as a summer's wind. That is hardly anything new._

One tear slipped from beneath my closed eyelid, and I felt Erik lightly sweep it away with two fingers. "Christine," he whispered, "oh, _fedrottning,_ don't cry. You don't know what it does to me when you cry."

I sniffed and opened my eyes. His gaze held mine, and it was sorrowful. "What does it do?" I asked, thinking too late that perhaps that question was a trifle impertinent.

He leaned back away from me a bit, seeming to quail a little. His mouth opened, closed, his eyes darted for a moment, and finally he answered. "It…makes me want to hold you, and I don't wish to alarm you by doing so without –"

I stood up swiftly and crushed myself to him, forgetting that he might not want me to at that moment, or that it might be too much, and he let out a swift breath.

If it was indeed too much, he didn't complain of it. His fingers drifted to my back, to my hair, and he gave a shuddering sigh. I breathed deeply, committing to memory the sharp, clean-yet-slightly-musty scent of his clothes. I wanted to hold this moment, keep it in my crystal cabinet of thoughts in my head and preserve it my whole life long. The smell of him, the smell of the tea. The warmth of the stove despite the chill in the underground air, the feel of the kitchen floor beneath my slippers. The feel of him, beneath my cheek and my arms.

His fingers traveled lightly up and down my back, where the waterfall of my hair tumbled over and under his hands. "Hair like spun gold," he murmured. "Like light itself. Has anyone ever told you that, Christine?"

I shook my head where it was half-buried in the lapels of his dressing-gown, and shivered with more than a little pleasure as he wonderingly drew his fingers through the ends of my hair. One hand then clutched me firmly around my back; the other came up beneath my chin, lifting my face so that he could look at me. My heart thumped painfully as he did; the love which glowed there even in his half-hidden countenance was almost overwhelming.

His hand left my chin and trailed across my temple; his thumb smoothed the stray hairs away from the top of my forehead. "May I?" he asked faintly, and I nodded, more vigorously than perhaps I should have, but none of that seemed to matter now.

Erik pressed several slow, soft kisses to my forehead, a certain reverence in his actions; as always whenever he did something of this sort there was an air of aching disbelief about him, as though he were secretly convinced that I was merely fantasy instead of flesh. I shivered and closed my eyes as he kissed the space between my brows; he hesitated for a moment and then continued down to place a tender, shaking kiss on each closed eyelid.

My fingers tightened a bit where they rested on the soft fabric of his dressing-gown, feeling little pin-pricks of pleasure travel up my spine. I felt him hesitate again, felt his breath on my cheek. I opened my eyes and he swallowed, straightening back up to his full height. He did not, however, let go of me.

"We should…perhaps…go to the parlor," Erik said, breathing deeply. "I need…I need to sit."

I nodded mutely; his arms dropped reluctantly and so did mine, although I quickly slipped my hand into his, lacing my fingers through his much longer digits. Erik glanced at me for only a moment when I did this, but his brief gaze made me dizzy with longing. I was utterly lost, I realized suddenly with a pang. There could be no denying to myself how I felt after this. It would be nearly unconscionable now to try to deny it to my own mind, my own heart. Letting Erik know, however, was another matter altogether – one for which, inexplicably, I wasn't sure I was entirely prepared.

"You never had your tea," I suddenly said when we had gone back to the drawing-room, and Erik shook his head. "Leave it," he said. "It's quite all right."

It was with no small amount of reluctance that I let go of his hand as we sat, and I suddenly noted that his breathing seemed a trifle more labored than ordinary. "Erik…" I said uncertainly, my voice laced with concern. "I know you don't like me to fuss – but –"

Erik had been idly rubbing his arm with one hand, a strange, almost pained look in his eyes and the set of his mouth; he somewhat guiltily glanced at me. "It's nothing," he said, and though his hand continued to rest on his arm, he ceased rubbing it. "I'm all right."

My lips thinned; he must have understood the look on my face, for he sighed. "Sometimes," he said, "due to my…condition…I experience some shortness of breath, combined with chest or arm pain." I stared at him in horror, and he shook his head in what seemed almost like exasperation. "These symptoms are, of themselves, not indicative of anything serious. A serious attack would involve much more…pronounced symptoms. You needn't worry about me, Christine. Not this moment. I have been living with this for a very long time, and I've kept much of it well hidden from you so as not to alarm you. Our current situation has rendered even my minor symptoms somewhat more obvious to you, and I understand that this unexpected frequency might alarm you. But I _assure_ you that there is nothing to fear at this precise moment." He paused, flexing his fingers and not looking at me. "Although…I do wish to mention that you must become used to the idea that I will more than likely have a…true attack at some juncture in the future, and that it may or may not be the one that finishes me. I do not, however, want you to _worry_ for it. I simply want you to feel – somewhat – prepared." He tightly folded his hands and slowly leaned his head back against the sofa, eyes fixed on a point somewhere above our heads.

I felt sick. I clenched my teeth, trying to stop another hot wave of tears. I couldn't stand this strange disconnection of his, this coldly clinical discussion of the matter of his health, his life and death. "There must be something that can be done," I said fiercely. "Something to be done so that it won't kill you. I cannot believe that there is nothing. I _cannot_."

Erik shrugged, still staring at the ceiling. He seemed oddly blank to me, suddenly, almost as though he were gradually shutting himself off like a machine. "Medical science has only come so far, Christine," he said, and his voice was cool and detached. "It is a marvel, but there are many things it cannot repair. This, I believe, is one of them."

"Have you _gone_ to see a doctor?" I asked, my vision blurring with the tears I refused to shed. "Have you tried to find out?"

Erik sat up, and from the tilt of his mouth I knew that he was scowling behind his mask. Still he didn't look at me. "No," he said. "No doctors. _Never_ doctors."

I sat staring at him, my mouth agape. "Then how do you _know?_ " I asked vehemently. "How do you _know_ there's nothing that can be done? For that matter, how do you even know you're going to die?" A swift, sudden little thrill of hope passed through me; maybe he was wrong about dying. Maybe he had been wrong all the time.

"I am very well-read, Christine," Erik said; his voice was measured, and just a little sharp. "Do you not think I have perused every available tome I can get my hands on concerning the subject of the heart and its various conditions? And I have been living in this body for fifty years. I know every despicable inch of it. We have been through a great many torments and trials together, my body and me. I know when I am ill. I _know_ that I am dying. I have accepted this, more or less." His voice abruptly softened. "The only thing left is for _you_ to accept it, and I confess I am beginning to worry that you will continue to refuse to do so."

"I can't accept it," I said, my vision still blurred. "I can't. I _won't_. Not until you see a doctor."

Erik closed his eyes tightly. "Deliver me from the stubbornness of women," he said between clenched teeth of his own. "I don't want to argue about this, Christine. Not now. Not to-night."

 _Erik, I love you,_ I wanted to say then, a bubble of frantic, terrifying admittance rising in my breast, wanted to _shout_ it at him to make him understand, but the words lodged fast in my throat and wouldn't come. I was still afraid, so afraid of what saying those words might mean; perhaps if I never said them aloud, everything would be easier to bear. Saying them aloud would only make my wounds sharper. I slumped where I sat on the sofa and furiously wiped at my eyes.

Erik was quiet for a long time after that, and he made no move to comfort me as he had in the kitchen. When I chanced a glance at him, he was still staring straight ahead, his hand fisted on his knee. "What would you like me to read to you?" he asked at last, his voice somewhat subdued. I sniffed. "I don't know," I said, failing to keep my voice from sounding sullen and miserable. "Whatever you like. It doesn't matter to me. I simply like hearing the sound of your voice."

Erik turned his masked face toward me; for a moment I thought I saw the blankness part to reveal a desperate, pained look in his eyes, a similar look to the one he'd had in the kitchen before I embraced him. I knew then that he was quite possibly just as afraid of all this as I was, the difference being that he was not afraid to tell me he loved me. He _was_ , however, afraid of dying, and I thought perhaps he was trying as much to convince himself otherwise as he was me.

I took a deep breath, and laid my hand atop his. "It needn't be from a book," I said. "You could tell me one of your Persian tales," and he flinched at this, though I couldn't fathom why.

"Ah, yes. Persia," he breathed. "I harbor a great many of my secrets from that land alone. Do you know, Christine, it is as though I have a whole country in my head devoted to darkness and blood of a bygone time?"

My fingers inadvertently curled up atop his in confusion and faint, nameless horror. "I didn't wish you to tell me stories of darkness, but of light," I said shakily. "I want fictions, not realities. Save the darkness for another day, Erik." _Come back to me,_ I thought. _Come out of this, come back. Don't hide, don't curl up inside your own head, don't shut yourself away. Come out and live._

Erik moved his hand away from mine, and I tried not to feel stung. "I don't know why you continue to be kind to me," he said, his voice low and pained, his eyes staring at the ground. "I can't fathom it. Even if you care somewhat for me, you don't love me," he said, dull and matter-of-fact and yet somewhat biting – almost as though it were an accusation – and I didn't know why he said that, why he had chosen this moment to express this belief. My heart seized, and his statement stung almost more than his withdrawal had; was he going to make me tell him _now?_ I didn't want this now, I didn't want it ripped from me this way, drawn inexorably out of me like water suctioned by a pump.

I lifted my hand from where it had momentarily rested on his knee, and I sucked in a breath. "That's not true," I said quietly. Erik's gaze slid slowly over to me, but from what I could see of his eyes, they were a void, disinterested and disbelieving, as though he hadn't even the strength to care if I were lying or not.

"Christine," he said tiredly, "I have told you many times now that I don't wish you to concoct falsehoods for my benefit. I know you mean well, my dear, but I do not enjoy this rather painful game of charades."

"It _isn't_ – " I tried to say, a sort of lump seeming to stick in my throat, but Erik fixed me with a look, and yet again for reasons I couldn't fathom, I fell silent. I felt angry at myself, angry for being so afraid. Angry at him, too, that he could silence me so easily, and that I allowed myself to be so silenced.

"Is it so difficult to believe," I asked softly at length, my voice shaking, "that a marigold could grow to love a weed?"

Erik straightened from his slack sitting position, and I heard him breathe slowly and deeply for a moment. His eyes slid back to mine again, and this time they were not blank, not void. I held his gaze calmly, even though my stomach fluttered. His lips parted ever so slightly as we stared at each other, and then he looked away, his body language strangely tense.

Without commenting any more on our previous conversation, he took another deep breath and began telling me one of the stories I had requested. "There once was a king who was father to three princes…"

Although I was a little hurt that he had not responded to or truly acknowledged my intimation, I relaxed almost unwittingly beneath the strains of his voice; sometimes in the past when he had done this, he had grown animated in the telling or reading, sometimes doing remarkably different and convincing voices for each player in the stories, but to-night he simply _spoke_ , gently and soothingly, as though he were putting a child to sleep. I felt every tense ligament and muscle in my body begin to go slack, and his voice was like a cool hand smoothing away every fear and doubt in my head. It was hypnotic, otherworldly, and there was no malice or unsavory motivation in it, only care. _I had almost forgotten this,_ I thought idly to myself, hearing the comforting tones of the Voice which had carried and comforted me through many a month of struggling to make my mark, of not feeling good enough, of being overwhelmed by grief. _If only he hadn't lied to me…things might have been very different, from the beginning._

At length my eyelids began fluttering half-closed, and I felt the heavy, warm fog of approaching sleep coming upon me.

"When his brothers saw the jewels of the rescued princess they were lifting from the well, and saw that he had slain the dragon, they grew jealous of him and thought to themselves that he should surely have the kingdom for himself if their father knew what great deeds he had done. So when the princess had been lifted from the well, they cut the rope, and their brother plummeted to the bottom, trapped. But the princess had told him…"

I began drifting through an aimless sea of half-sleeping and half-waking, Erik's voice caressing me and surrounding me. _And I thought I wasn't tired,_ I managed to sleepily think to myself.

Abruptly Erik's voice ceased, and this was a trifle jarring to me in my half-awake state. "I am afraid I am going to have to continue the tale of Prince Khorshid and his adventures with the Simurgh another night, my dear," I heard him say. I stirred, and sighed. Gradually I became vaguely aware of the gas lights dimming throughout the room – _and probably the house,_ I thought idly; _He must be turning everything down or off for the night._ Very soon I heard his steps nearby and felt his fingers trailing whisper-light across my cheek, and I wondered, groggily, if I was merely imagining it.

"You'll have to stand up, my dear. I'll help you, if you'll let me," he said, and his voice was delicious in my ear, wistful and soft and sweet. "I would, perhaps, carry you – and in my younger days I should have been well up to the task – but I'm afraid that even your slight frame would prove a bridge too far for me now."

Sleepily, I nodded, though I was beginning to gradually become more awake and aware, and I felt his hand take mine, his arm slip about my waist as I slowly stood. I leaned lightly against him.

"Erik," I said softly, my inhibitions peeling back just slightly, "it's all right, you know. Sleeping…in the same bed. I know you're going to ask me again, simply to make sure I haven't changed my mind, and you don't need to ask. It's quite all right."

Erik stiffened a little against my side as we walked to my bedroom. "My little bird is coming to know me very well indeed, it would seem," he said quietly, and a strange little tendril of satisfaction wound through me.

He slowly let go of me when we reached the room. "You can stand, yes?" he asked me, and I nodded. "I may be tired, but I'm quite capable of looking after myself," I said, covering with my hand the yawn that had come out of me. "That isn't…that isn't to say I don't appreciate you helping me, of course," I amended, after the yawn had passed.

Erik gave a tight little nod, and I noted suddenly that his body language was growing more tense by the moment. _What has he to be nervous about?_ I thought idly. _This isn't anything, really._ I realized then that I was telling myself as much, trying to calm my own stirring nerves even as they slowly began to pull taut like violin strings.

I also realized that I needed to remove my corset, if not change into my night-clothes – the latter of which seemed a bit too much under the circumstances. I could, perhaps, sleep in my dressing-gown and under-clothes beneath. But I could not possibly sleep in my corset.

"I'll be out in a moment," I said awkwardly to Erik, without looking at him. I swiftly brushed past him to my bath-room and shut the door, breathing deeply in relief once I had reached that privacy. But after merely a moment of peace it was as though I could still feel his eyes through the very wood of the door itself, could feel his presence as palpably as my own heartbeat, could feel his hesitant curiosity burning me like a brand.

I loosed the ties of my dressing-gown and let it fall to the floor for the time being; I pulled wildly at my lacings, tearing at them as though they were prison bars. Once those had been loosened as well, I undid the clasps at the front and, unsure what to do with my corset now that it had been removed, draped it in a somewhat slovenly fashion over the back of the chair near the tub. I could not imagine walking back out into my bedroom with my corset laid over my arm, putting it away while he watched. _Not yet, at any rate,_ a treacherously delicious whisper echoed through my mind. An image came to me of his long, slender hands cool on my back, loosening my lacings himself while the bulk of my hair was swept over my shoulder and his breath stirred the little hairs on the back of my neck. A long, terrible shiver went through me and I whipped around, catching a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I almost didn't recognize myself. Swipes of color were spread over my cheeks like paint, and my lips were flushed and parted. I looked like a loose woman, standing there in my petticoats and camisole with my flushed face and my hair unbound and wild. I wondered how I would look to Erik, if he saw me at this moment, and I blushed even more furiously at that.

I turned away from the mirror and bent down to pick up my dressing-gown, hating myself for my willful, torrid imagination. I hated, too, my cowardice that I could not simply walk through the door as I was and say _Here I am, husband,_ see the look in his eyes grow hot and frenzied, put his hands where I wanted them, feel his mouth on my skin and hear him say my name. Part of me wickedly wanted all that, wanted it so badly that I felt myself aflame with longing, but another part of me – the coward's part, perhaps, the still dominant force behind my body and mind – kept telling me it was too soon for that, that I was entirely unprepared for the logical conclusion of such behavior.

I closed my eyes, wishing suddenly that I _was_ more like Sorelli – who cared nothing of what people thought of her beyond her art, for her innate charm was as natural to her as breathing. Sorelli, who made men's heads turn as though they were pulled on a string, and whose smile was as bright and as brazen as one of Bacchus' nymphs. _She_ certainly did not agonize over the proper way to do things, I thought; she did things precisely as she saw fit. She almost certainly did not deny herself the secret, heady pleasure of being looked at by a man, of being touched and caressed and adored. I would have given almost anything to be more like her, suddenly, and I clenched my hands into fists. I felt like a woman bewitched, caught between two worlds, and as I tried to make sense of my thoughts, I heard a very light tap on the door. I groaned silently.

"Christine…" his voice said somewhat uncomfortably, "You have…been in there a long while. Far be it from me to disturb whatever feminine rituals you have in place before bed-time, but I have grown a trifle concerned that you might have fallen asleep in your bath-room."

"I'm not asleep," I said, almost irritably. "I'll be out in a few moments. Give me time, please." I fastened the ties of my dressing-gown and splashed cold water on my face from the tap, wanting my cheeks to have cooled before I faced him again. I smoothed my hair with my wet hands, tamping down the wild strays and swiftly twining the soft strands into a very loose, long braid. My ribbons were in my room, so I had nothing at hand with which to tie it off, but I supposed it would do for the moment.

After a swift second or two of indecision, I decided to change into my night-gown after all. It was certainly preferable to sleeping in my petticoats under a dressing-gown, even though it would mean another awkward encounter with Erik – who was no doubt still standing rather uncertainly in the middle of my room.

I sighed and opened the door; he was not standing at all, but sat on the edge of the bed with his fingers clasped together very tightly indeed.

"I'm a bit muddled this evening, it would seem," I said calmly, trying not to let him see that I was taking my night-gown out of the dresser-drawer – though I couldn't imagine why I was trying so hard to hide it from him, as he would almost certainly discern it soon enough. I swiftly returned to the bath-room and closed the door again, with my night-gown tucked and folded beneath my arm.

My petticoats and camisole came off, and the night-gown went on; the dressing-gown went on over that for added modesty. I left everything else draped over the chair; I thought to myself that I would retrieve it all in the morning after he had gone to another part of the house.

When I exited my bath-room yet again, I pretended not to notice him looking at me while I turned down the gas so there was only a faint glimmer of light in the room.

"Would you…" Erik hesitated, while bending down to take off his shoes. "Would you turn it all the way down, please?"

I glanced at him uncertainly, and nodded. I could see the odd shine of his eyes in the near-dark, like a cat's almost, and it unsettled me a little. It had been a long while indeed since I had seen them like that.

I turned off the gas and the room grew completely dark, black as pitch with no other light to penetrate; I felt my way slowly to the edge of the bed, careful not to trip. My ears picked up a swift little slide of fabric and a soft clatter on my night-stand, and as I slid my feet out of my slippers and curled beneath the covers on my own side, I wondered if – and gradually became almost certain that – those sounds meant that he had taken off his mask.

I felt the weight at the other side of the bed shift, felt the covers move a bit as he lay down. He was not terribly near to me, that much I knew; the bed was large, too large for one person. It was, I thought, just large enough for two people to lie at either side of it without ever touching each other.

"Good-night, Christine," I heard his rich, warm voice say, as though he were murmuring it softly just beneath my ear, and I shivered. He hadn't moved, I knew that, but his voice had; it was the first time I had heard him throw his voice in weeks, but there was no playful mischief in this little trick as there had been in all the others. This was something else, something far more intimate, as though he were touching me without the use of his hands.

"Good-night, Erik," I said softly, my face tingling with tiny pin-pricks of embarrassed longing, my arms covered in little bumps of goose-flesh. God help me, I wanted him to do it again, wanted him to slide his voice over my skin the way he was too shy to do with his hands – or, perhaps, the way in which I was simply too shy to ask or allow. I didn't know what the correct course was, didn't want this to become too much for me to contain.

I rolled over so that I was no longer facing the wall on my side, but was rather facing the moderate expanse of bed stretching out before me. I slowly slid my hand forward. "Erik?" I asked very quietly, as I didn't imagine he could see me or my hand in this blackness. "Might I…that is…would you hold out your hand, please?"

There was another long silence, and then I felt the slight weight of his arm moving forward. He found me by warmth, if nothing else; very soon our hands were gently clasped, his right and my left. My heart pounded in my ears.

To my surprise and somewhat alarmed delight, he didn't stop merely at clasping my hand; his fingers slipped from my grasp after a moment and began lightly tracing the bones in my wrist, trailing over my knuckles and fingers all the way to the tips and back again. "If this is…too much," he said, and I heard his voice in my ear again, terrifyingly sensuous, "you will tell me to stop, yes?"

"Yes," I managed to whisper, "although it isn't. Too much, I mean."

"Good," he murmured, and this time his voice came from where he actually was. His ministrations began to slow, and I thought perhaps he was growing tired. And wasn't that something, for in all the time I had known him, he hardly ever seemed to sleep.

I badly wanted the courage to ask him to touch me elsewhere, too, but my throat was closed and my heart, it seemed, was still haphazardly shuttered up. I wasn't ready. _When we go to the house,_ I thought, and this determination was so firm and resolute, so obvious, that it was strangely exciting, _I will ask him then. But not before. It needs to be in a place that we make entirely our own, together. Not here in his moldering domain, nor in my flat where my dead surrogate parents once lived. But in_ our _house, out in the country, away from the city and away from everything that can possibly remind us of death and decay and – impending loss._

"Erik," I said softly, "when will we move our things into the house? The one in the country?"

"Oh," he said with a small yawn, "well…I thought perhaps we could do that sometime this week, if it is perfectly agreeable to you."

"Yes," I murmured, a lovely tingle of excitement catching at my breath, "and the managers? When shall we speak to them?"

"Tomorrow, Christine," he said. "Tomorrow."

I lightly squeezed his hand. "Very well."

I felt him gently squeeze my hand in turn, and a pleasurable little shiver traveled up my spine. "Sleep, sweeting," he said, and his voice – _The_ Voice – though it trembled, was like a gentle but inexorable command from God himself; it made my limbs feel heavy and slack, and I could no more resist it than a light piece of driftwood could resist the pull of the tide.

My eyes closed, as if the lids were weighted down, and my mind began to fog like a winter window-pane. It didn't occur to me to rebuke Erik for exercising his formidable and rather unsettling vocal powers so often this evening; not much occurred to me at all, really, other than the pleasure of slipping under everything into the realm of slumber.

Just before I drifted off, his cool hand still in mine, I heard him softly whisper "I love you, Christine." I couldn't be sure, but I thought I felt a faint mumble drift past my tired lips – or perhaps it was simply words I said in my own head.

"I love you, Erik."

* * *

I awoke at some point from a dream, with no way to tell the hour in the impenetrable dark of my bedroom. It had been a truly terrible dream; Erik had vanished from my arms in it like a true ghost, and I had known he was dead. I would never see him again, never feel his touch or hear his voice. He was gone, gone for good, gone entirely, no trace of him left behind. I had wandered, stumbling through hazy corridors calling for him, running when I could, thinking that wherever he had gone to, I could catch up if only I tried.

A cold sweat had broken out on my body by the time I awoke. I panted a little, relieved to be awake and yet terrified that the dream had come true while I slept. Panicked and disoriented, reaching for him, I rolled over, gasping his name, and stretched out my arms as far as they could go; my palm thudded against Erik's back.

Erik's arm flung out wildly, his bony wrist nearly striking the side of my head. I cried out in a moment of confusion, and his arm halted its swift arc; he rolled over and I felt his cold hands on my face. "Christine!" he breathed. "Are you all right? I thought for a moment that I was back in the open again, sleeping under the sky, and – oh, Christine. Did I hurt you?"

"No," I whispered, burying my face in his shirt, nearly sobbing with relief that he was still alive, he was here, he was mine. "Erik, I had a night-mare. I didn't mean to startle you awake."

His fingers threaded through my hair, and his arms wrapped around me somewhat stiffly; I noticed, suddenly, that even as I pressed myself to him, he slowly and awkwardly angled his hips away from mine. I didn't think on it much, other than that he was trying to be polite; hardly anything seemed to matter more than the breathless relief of Erik being alive.

"Your hands," I whispered after a long moment. "They're like ice."

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice sounding almost ashamed, and he began to withdraw. "No, no," I murmured, "Let me warm them," and I took them in mine and breathed, holding them close to my mouth. Erik shuddered, and I gradually began to feel a little spark of warm wickedness stir within me.

 _I wonder what would happen,_ I thought with terrible impulsivity, _if I…_

It was a swift impulse, but it proved impossible to ignore. I quivered a little and took a deep breath. Slowly, softly, I pressed my lips to each of the tips of his fingers, as he had once done to mine; Erik's hands trembled against my mouth as I breathed my warm breath and pressed little kisses to his skin.

"Too much?" I murmured shyly. "Should I stop?"

" _No,"_ he said hoarsely, almost as soon as I had spoken, and a rush of lightning heat crackled through my body. Emboldened, I drew my lips over his palms, shivering as I did so, and – pausing to make sure it was all right – ever so slowly pushed back his sleeves just a little so that I could trail a whisper-light line of kisses over his wrists. Erik made a soft, aching sound, almost like a whimper, and suddenly my power began to frighten me. I dropped his wrists and drew closer to him. "Hold me, Erik," I whispered, "please," and his arms gradually wound around me, drawing me in.

"Christine," he murmured, "Oh, my love and my bane. No torturer could devise a more exquisite method of agony than this."

"What agony?" I breathed suddenly in alarm. "Have I hurt you?"

"No, I…I did not…exactly…speak of physical pain," he murmured somewhat awkwardly.

I swallowed. Tentatively, slowly, I brought my fingers up to his chin. He flinched, but allowed me, and as I trailed my fingertips over his mouth, a long shiver ran through him. "I love you," he whispered, his hands trembling on my back. "Sometimes I think perhaps I am not dying of illness at all, but of love."

I let out a soft sound and drew him down to me, pressing my mouth to his. The tip of my nose brushed against the very edge of the hole in the middle of his face, but somehow I no longer cared; in another life I might have instinctively recoiled, but this new me had no fear. That edge was not rough and scabbed or seeping, but thinly lined with tough and twisted skin – almost like scar tissue, I thought with an unsettling little twist in my gut – and although it was certainly strange, it was not nearly as horrifying as I had imagined once upon a time.

His lips had been cool, but they swiftly warmed beneath mine, and as the kiss deepened and a shivering moan drifted from between his lips, the angle of his hips changed drastically. He bucked against me instead of curling away, and I gasped as our bodies pressed together, even clothed as we were.

"Christine…I…" His mouth fumbled on mine again, and I let out a breathy little sigh of my own, tendrils of bliss flooding my veins as he kissed me. After a long moment, his body, which had fairly melded to mine, went slack. Erik pulled his head back, and breathed deeply.

"Christine…" he said again, and then cleared his throat. His hands slid away from me, and I began to ache; my heart pounded. _No, come back, please don't go away. Not again._

"I…oh, I beg your pardon, my dove," he sighed, and then his voice began to change to something very unlike what it had been only seconds ago. It was calm, tightly controlled. "I did not mean to be so…" He took another deep breath. "Intemperate."

I didn't know what to do, what to say. My hands hovered just short of the warmth of his body, and I felt suspended as though by a rope above a stage, caught halfway between the flies and the floor. His voice was so strangely cold, colder even than his hands had been. I wanted so badly to reassure him, to whisper words of love into his skin and feel him melt against me once more. But I was utterly stymied by the chilly tone of his voice; I suddenly didn't know if he really wanted me. What if this sudden coldness was not symptomatic of shyness, but rather…distaste? It made no sense, not in light of everything else, but in that agonizing series of moments I was irrationally paralyzed by my own fears and my confused longing.

"It's…quite all right," I heard myself saying in a forcibly moderate tone, and I shouted in my own head, _No, don't play along, pull him back, tell him,_ and yet I continued speaking as though I hadn't thought of it at all. "I acted quite…intemperately myself, I suppose."

I screamed silently to myself to cease this nonsense at once. But it was as though another entity had taken me over entirely, almost as a kind of rock-hard defense; propriety had ever been drummed into my head as a shield against wantonness, and all of my training was coming into play in spite of the fact that there was nothing at all improper about a husband touching his wife in their bed.

My cheeks flamed, and I opened my mouth to say something far less stilted, but the damage had been done; Erik's weight on the bed shifted, and I heard what might have been the scrape of his mask as he grabbed it from the bedside table. "I won't trouble you any longer," he said, and his voice was expressionless. "Good-night, Christine."

"Erik –" I managed to squeak out in a whisper. "Please don't… _please_ don't leave." I was overcome with the horror of it, the horror of not having him near, and all the terror and dread of that awful dream coming back. "I had…my night-mare, you see…it was about you. That you were gone. I couldn't find you. I…"

Against my will, I began to cry, and I hated myself for it. I stuffed my fist against my mouth, trying to muffle it, but he heard.

"Christine," he sighed, and I felt his fingers brush blindly against my hair in the dark. "Lay your head on your pillow, my dear. I will sing you to sleep, and you will see me in the morning."

I wordlessly complied. "And you'll stay?" I whispered at last. His hand, which rested still on my cheek, trembled almost imperceptibly. "No," he said, "but I will come to your door in the morning and wake you. This was…I am afraid it was something of a mistake on my part, Christine."

I opened my mouth, but closed it again; I was frustrated and I didn't know how to argue with him, not when I was so tired and conflicted beyond the scope of reason. My body throbbed, and a thin line of hot tears squeezed from between my eyelids. I tried to say the words, wanted desperately to tell him how I felt, but my _I love you_ inexplicably stuck in my throat, burning me. Had I ever really said those words, earlier, or had I only felt as though I had?

His fingers smoothed the loose strands from my brow, sending a pleasurable little chill through me, and he began to sing – gently, although the particular song he sang generally called for more volume amidst its tenderness.

Every emotion melted into tender bliss; every thought drifted away as if gently blown by a guiding breeze. I clutched at his hand with my own fingers, but as sleep began to grip me once more, I felt my hand slowly drop to the bed beside me.

His lips brushed my forehead, and I heard his voice as distantly as though it were on the wind. "Good-night, _gudinna_."


	15. Chapter XV - A Pleasant Morning

**A/N: This is a belated edit, but a million thanks to Birdie (hopsjollyhigh) for the headcanon about Erik's hair. Seriously check out her stories; His Hair is the one that inspired me with that particular idea.**

* * *

Erik woke me as he had promised, with a light knock on my door. I came up from sleep easily this time, feeling strangely refreshed. Thankfully there had been no more night-mares.

"Yes," I said loudly enough for him to hear, "I'm awake. Thank you." After a moment I almost asked him to come in, but as soon as my mouth had opened for this purpose, I quickly shut it. It was too soon, too strange after the confusing events of last night. _I ought to – and shall – discuss all of that with him at some juncture before too long,_ I thought, _but surely it can wait until I'm properly dressed at least._

I thought for a moment that he might ask to come in himself, but he didn't; as I pushed back the covers and left the bed, I heard his footsteps heading away from my bedroom door, just as usual.

I took my time getting dressed, took my time to brush out my hair until it fairly shone. _Like spun gold,_ Erik had said, and the memory made me blush. I didn't pin it up yet, but let it fall down my back and around my shoulders and reveled in this strange new freedom I felt. Let him look at my hair, I thought with a touch of rebelliousness; let him stare, let him touch it if he wanted. It was perfectly all right with me. I would pin it up properly when we were ready to go above.

I smiled at myself in the mirror, feeling a sudden rush of confidence and determination. I would draw him out, to-day or in the very near future. I would not allow him to hide from me, not anymore.

If he truly did not want me now, if all of his past intimations and cues had been read falsely by me or if his feelings had changed, let him say so, and that would be the end of it. But if he did want me – and I thought, or at least hoped, that he still did, and that he was merely shy or uncertain – I wanted to make him admit it. Perhaps not all at once, but certainly by the time we had moved our things into the country house. One way or another, I would slowly get him to tell me how he truly felt.

I smoothed my skirts as I stood up from my vanity table and opened the door. "Erik?" I called. "In here, Christine," I heard him say, and I smelled eggs cooking in the kitchen.

When I poked my head in, he was indeed at the stove, and he gestured to the table with his head without really looking at me. "Sit," he said, "and eat something. We'll be speaking with the managers to-day and you will need something to sustain you beforehand."

I sat quietly at the table, waiting for him to look at me, but he kept his back turned to the table. I noted only one plate on the table, and that was mine. "Aren't you going to be eating?" I asked, and he shrugged his shoulders as he turned off the stove. I sighed. "Erik," I said, a note of reproach creeping into my voice, "please eat. For my sake, if nothing else."

I saw his back stiffen just a little, and he snatched a towel from the counter, cleaning up the bit of spattered egg on the stove. "I eat only when I wish, Christine," he said, "which isn't often. You already know that. Besides…" He turned his head, finally, and froze; his fingers loosened their grip on the towel and it slowly slid from his grasp onto the floor.

At that moment, I thought I knew something of how Sorelli – or any woman bolder than I – felt at the moment she captured someone's attention, particularly if she were deliberately seeking it out. Erik hadn't expected my hair to be down in the morning; I always, always pinned it up before exiting my bedroom. The rush of heady, wicked pleasure at getting precisely the reaction I had wished sliced through me before I could blink, and although I tried not to smile, it was almost impossible. I calmly left my chair and picked up the towel from the floor, putting it back in his hand. "Good morning," I said, looking directly into his eyes and letting my hand linger on his for far longer than was necessary.

I saw him swallow. "I…ah…" he said, his eyes raking my face, my unbound hair. A strange giddiness had begun to bubble up in me, and I wanted to laugh, but didn't dare.

"Thank you for the eggs," I said sweetly, and rose up on tip-toe to place a swift kiss on his mouth; to my consternation, however, he leaned backward a little and my lips met air. "You should sit down, Christine," he said, his eyes sliding away from me as though he were deliberately trying to distract himself in some way. "I suppose I'll eat a little if you plan to insist upon it."

Confused and more than a little hurt – though gratified that he was acquiescing to my wishes that he nourish himself – I let my hand fall from his and sat down again, trying not to let my irritation and bruised feelings show upon my face.

Erik took a plate from the cupboard and spooned a small portion of the eggs upon it; the rest he gave to me.

"Have some bread," I said, trying to remain calm and collected. I handed him a piece and he took it wordlessly.

We ate in silence for a few minutes until I could bear it no longer. I put down my fork with a little _clack_. "Why wouldn't you let me kiss you?" I asked, feeling a rush of humiliation rise up in my cheeks.

Erik paused and put the remainder of his bread back on his plate. He regarded me with a strange, curious look. "Did it offend you?"

I swallowed and quickly nodded a little, looking down at the table instead of at him.

I heard him sigh. "I didn't…Christine, I didn't mean to offend. I am…I am trying to…it is difficult to explain," he said somewhat helplessly, and I looked up at him again, furrowing my brow. "I suppose if you don't want me to kiss you any more," I said, a note of coldness inadvertently creeping into my voice to disguise the hurt, "I won't."

"No! It isn't that I – " Erik cursed under his breath and slammed his hand on the table, making me jump. He stood up, letting out a breath. "I _apologize_ for having offended you, Mlle. Daaé," he said curtly, his fingers curled tightly into fists, and made to leave.

I stared at him, a wave of righteous anger washing over me. "If you're going to be formal," I said forcefully, "you might as well call me Mme. Deschamps, especially since I now wear your ring."

Erik paused, and turned back toward me with a pained expression in his eyes and mouth. I let my anger pass, like a wave going back out to sea, and regarded him as calmly as I could manage.

"You don't understand," he said softly. "How could you? You are so…unaware, so blissfully unaware."

"Unaware of what?" I asked, feeling a little tremor run through me. My throat felt tight.

Erik shook his head, one finger tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh. "Better to leave you innocent of it," he said.

 _I'm not nearly so innocent of all of this as you think,_ I thought indignantly, but didn't say it aloud. "I want to know," I said, trying not to let my voice tremble. "Tell me, Erik."

His eyes met mine, and while they were still pained, there was something else in them too, something which made a slow shiver of warmth crawl up my spine. "Sit down," I said gently. "Please. Let's have a pleasant morning. I want to be with you." I held out my hand across the table, and his lips parted ever so slightly. His eyes darted to the door and then back to me again. _Please,_ I begged him silently, keeping my hand outstretched.

Slowly, his steps seeming like a struggle, he came back to the table. After a moment, he closed his eyes and sat down in his chair again.

I kept my hand where it was on the table, not moving; at length he opened his eyes and slowly, tentatively slid his fingers over my palm. I covered his hand with my other, so that his hand was cradled in both of mine. The words stuck in my throat again, but with my eyes and my touch I tried to communicate silently to him that I loved him. Why could I not bring myself to say it aloud? Why did it frighten me so much?

His gaze on me was soft, though warm; there was a glowing ember in his eyes which he appeared to be keeping carefully contained, and I thought to myself that I wanted that ember to become a flickering, roaring flame. I had once feared being consumed by the depth of his feeling; now I realized to my near consternation that I wanted nothing more than to be caught up in it, body and soul.

"If you don't want to speak about it," I said quietly, "that's all right. But you should know that you hurt my feelings, even though I know – I hope – you did not mean to."

Erik gave a shuddering sigh. "No," he said, "I never meant to hurt you. It wasn't what you think. Forgive me, little bird." He pressed my hands to his lips with closed eyes, his fingers trembling beneath mine.

I had a sudden thought, and it wouldn't leave me no matter how I fought against it. "Erik," I said at length in what was almost a whisper, "take off your mask."

His eyes shot up to meet mine, and there was terror in them but also something else, something like curiosity and an almost frenzied hope. He didn't speak for a long moment, but finally he croaked out, "Why?"

"Because," I said softly, "I want to see my husband. I don't want you to hide from me any longer. There's no need to hide. I hope you know that. I _pray_ you know that."

Erik's fingers trembled more violently and he dropped my hands from his. "I…" He sucked in a breath. "Granted, it was in the dark – but you didn't shrink from me, last night," he said, "even though you knew I wore nothing over my face. Why?"

I regarded him as calmly as I could. "You know why, I think," I said, my voice still soft. "You know it doesn't matter any more. You know there isn't any need for masks between us."

Erik's mouth opened and closed, as though he were desperately trying to think of something to say but couldn't, and his eyes darted up to the ceiling. I saw him swallow again. "Promise me, Christine," he whispered, "promise me you mean every word of this. Because if you don't – if you're lying to me – I won't be able to stand it. My soul has been shattered into pieces before, long ago…and while I have, through the years, managed to somewhat haphazardly put it back together again, it is a fragile state of affairs. I cannot bear to have it shattered by you as well."

"I mean it," I said fiercely, grabbing his hand again as tears welled up in my eyes. "Oh, I mean it, Erik. I swear on my life. Please believe me. I swear it."

His eyes slowly met mine again, and closed for a moment. He nodded tightly and took a deep breath. Slowly he slid his hand from mine and raised both hands to the back of his head, loosening the ties of his mask. He paused for a moment, his chest rising and falling, his eyes panicked, and I breathed, "Please, Erik."

In a swift movement, he let his mask fall, catching it with his hands and holding onto it for dear life. He didn't look at me, instead staring at the wall behind me with a taut, frozen expression on his face. _Look at me,_ he seemed to say to me without words, _look at me and judge me and my appearance all you like, but I don't want to see your face while you do._

I tried not to stare, but I couldn't help it. Somehow I had remembered it a bit wrongly, this particular feature which he had been so keen to hide; my memory had insisted that it was a black, gaping hole, but perhaps this had been influenced by no small amount of terror and revulsion from the past. Everything had happened so quickly that very first time, full of confusion and sounds and fear…and the second time I had seen him had been nothing more than a brief accident, after which he had never been careless enough to let me see his face entirely uncovered again. On that particular day, some time after the first, he had been in one of his moods, and I had awoken that morning to the sound of him playing thunderously in his room. So loud had been the music he played that he did not hear me come to his half-open bedroom door; too late I had seen his mask lying discarded on top of the piano before he sensed my presence and instinctively turned. Only a few split seconds, perhaps, as I had stood there in muted shock – and then almost before I could blink he had turned his face away again and had swiftly replaced the mask with practiced fingers. We hadn't spoken of it, afterward, and he had acted as though it hadn't happened; for my part, awkward as I was, I had never dared to mention it in the days following. Neither instance had given me a proper opportunity to really _study_ what was in the middle of his face, though I had taken in the other details of his skin and the sharply angled bone structure.

It really wasn't _so_ bad, taken as an individual feature; I supposed it had been far more shocking when the entire face came as a surprise, but I had had ample time to get quite used to the rest of his attributes when he wore his false nose, and this was merely one more. Far from being the ghoulish open maw I had thought I remembered, it was in fact a slightly puckered, oblong pair of holes; the bridge was there atop them, beneath the skin, as though nature had begun to form a proper nose but stopped short of creating the softer tissue. He had the structure and the bony part of the septum, but all of the cartilage was missing. A somewhat skull-like orifice indeed, to be sure, but somehow not nearly as shocking as I had thought I remembered it up close.

His eyes flicked back to mine, and they darkened.

"What are you thinking about, Christine?" he asked me, his voice thorny and on edge, his fingers twitching and tapping on the table. "I suppose detailed scrutiny is highly preferable to stultified horror, but like most people, it makes me exceedingly uncomfortable to be gawked at in this fashion."

My eyes, which had fixed on the middle of his face again for a moment, slid guiltily upward to meet his. "I was remembering medical terms," I said. "The Professor had a book of anatomy."

"Oh?" he asked slowly, his fingers halting their rhythm. "And just which medical terms were you recalling to mind?"

My hands fidgeted. "Cartilage," I said in a very small voice. "Septum."

His expression hardly changed. "I see," he said.

"I didn't mean to stare."

His gaze dropped to the table. "Is this finished?" he asked tightly. "Will you permit me to put it back on now?"

My heart hurt. "If you wish," I said, "although if it means anything, I would prefer that you didn't."

Erik sighed and put his elbows on the table, leaning his forehead into his hands. "I am not accustomed to this," he said, his voice strained. "To being looked at by one person. Long ago, when I traveled in a fair, I would often sing for large crowds of people, and at the end of it, I would take off my mask, to shock them. Somehow it was easier to do it in front of a sea of faces, to block out the reactions – sometimes I even _reveled_ in the reactions, as a kind of defense, I suppose. But this – this is _so very_ different, Christine."

I touched his arm. "Let's go to the sitting-room," I said softly. "We can talk more there."

His eyes regarded me through the bars of his fingers, and he nodded.

When we had reached the sofa in the sitting-room, I sat down and asked him to sit by me. His hands were still hovering near his shirt-collar, as though he desperately wanted to cover his face but was attempting to please me by not doing so. Slowly he sat down beside me, and I tentatively leaned my head on his shoulder. "Is this all right?" I whispered, and he replied, "Yes," in a sonorous voice. I took his hand in both of mine again, and this time his fingers wrapped firmly around mine.

"Oh, Christine," he said, his voice a soft breath. "You astonish me. Wonders never cease, do they? I cannot fathom this newfound courage of yours, but I…I find I am growing to like it."

"No courage," I said softly, "only care." Erik's grip tightened a little.

"I love you," he breathed, and I looked at him and saw the love of which he spoke glowing from his eyes – for the first time I was beholding that expression while also beholding all of his face. My heart trembled. "I love you too," I whispered, the words finally spilling out of me as easily as if they had never been trapped inside.

Erik's mouth opened slightly and he let out a soft breath; after a moment he closed his eyes. "My brave, beautiful girl," he said, his voice full of disbelief and pride and pain. "My sweet, generous little songbird. I must still be asleep. This cannot be reality. Only the bittersweet realm of dreams."

I shook my head. "No," I said, my heart filling so that it felt as though it would burst, "no, it's real. I'm here. I love you," and saying it felt like singing onstage, felt reckless and beautiful and freeing. "I love you," I said again, feeling warmth rise in my face and a wild joy rising in my heart. When my fingers brushed his cheek, they came away wet, and I realized suddenly that tears were glistening on his face.

"Oh," I breathed, "Oh, Erik." He turned his head away from me as though he were ashamed, and I saw his shoulders heave.

"Erik, it's all right," I said softly, "please don't turn away," and I heard a quiet sob come out of him as he put one hand over his face.

"Come back to me," I whispered, and he turned his head again to face me, his expression contorted. "I don't understand," he said, between shaking breaths, his face covered in tears which he did not bother to wipe away. "I don't understand how, or why. But…you really do love me. You mean it. You aren't lying."

I nodded, and his breath heaved again. "My love," he said, his beautiful voice shuddering, " _min gudinna_ , my songbird, my _life,_ " and as his fingers traveled wonderingly across my face, he slowly leaned forward and pressed his cheek, wet as it was, to my forehead; I didn't mind.

"Erik," I said softly, "will you tell me now why you wouldn't kiss me in the kitchen? And why…and why you left so suddenly last night? I know it wasn't because you felt boxed in. It was something else."

He stiffened, and slowly drew back, straightening. One hand came up, the heel of the palm absently wiping away the moisture on his face. "Yes. I suppose," he said flatly, "that if I have allowed myself thus far to be so exposed without negative consequence, a trifle more vulnerability cannot harm me."

I waited patiently, though my hands twitched a little in my lap. When Erik had successfully cleared his face of tears, he slowly looked at me; he hesitantly, haltingly held out his arms, and I gladly leaned into them, breathing deeply as my own arms wrapped around him too. I felt him press a slow, firm kiss to the top of my head, and he sighed into my hair. "So small, so fragile and yet strong as steel," he whispered, "and oh, _so_ very beautiful. Do you know, Christine, that sometimes you inspire quite a dreadful dichotomy within me indeed? I want to keep you from harm, shield you from every sordid thing the world has to offer, and yet…oh, and _yet_." One of his hands gathered a fistful of my hair, and I felt him shudder as he brought it up to his face and rubbed it against his cheek. A muffled groan erupted from his throat, and his other hand, which had been resting lightly on my back, slowly curled into claws.

I raised my head, trembling and not knowing if I ought to pull away. He stared at me intensely, examining me with his eyes as though he had never quite seen me before, and the look on his face was terrifying and thrilling all at once.

"The truth, Christine," he said in a lowered voice, "is that in spite of my… _very_ protective feelings toward you, these are often offset by something…quite different. Something not protective at all. Something that should almost certainly have frightened you out of your wits some weeks ago, although I am beginning to have an inkling that it might not frighten you half so much now. I…but no, that is terribly, preposterously presumptuous of me," and he turned his head away again, his breath shuddering. I lifted my hand, slowly turning his face back to me once more. My heart pounded so fiercely I thought it might go into my throat.

"Tell me, Erik," I breathed. "Please. You were right, I won't be frightened."

He swallowed again, and his tongue darted out nervously across his lips. The look in his eyes made me feel as though I might turn to ash under his gaze, and the hand which had been in my hair now traced the lines of my face as though he were memorizing every detail with his fingers. Not feather-light, this touch, but firm; his hand was cool, but gradually growing warmer.

"When I was a young man," he said, and his voice made a quiver run through my belly, "I often found myself…wanting things I could not have. It was, I thought, a kind of spiteful torture from whatever sadistic force compelled my creation. As I grew older, I learnt to school these passions more proficiently, and at one point, I thought my natural ardor had blessedly cooled for good. Until, that is, the day upon which I became aware of _you_ , Christine."

My breath hitched in my throat, and heat rose in my face. Part of me felt somewhat embarrassed and wanted to squirm away, but another part of me – and this time, it was far more dominant – thrilled and ached. Propriety could go hang itself, I thought. There were a great many sensuous mysteries lying just beneath the surface of my life, waiting to be explored, and I had a sharp inkling that I was just now poised to discover at least a few of them.

Erik was looking at me intently – searching for any signs of discomfort, I imagined. I blushed more deeply and lowered my eyes, resting my hand on his jacket. "Go on," I said quietly. Erik cleared his throat.

"When I – quite by accident, mind you – saw you onstage preparing for your audition, something began to stir inside me, something I had thought either dormant or extinct. I wanted to leave, but I was transfixed. I could not move my body from the spot to which I seemed rooted, could not will it to obey me. I wanted to hear what your voice sounded like; I was desperate to hear it. Just that, I thought, and then I'll go, and I will think on her no more except in passing. But when you opened your mouth, and your clear, beautiful voice, full of promise and potential, rang out through the theatre…I knew then with a sinking, yet terribly wonderful feeling that I should no more be able to ignore or dismiss your existence than I could deny the pounding of my own heart. I _tried_ , Christine. I tried for weeks after that to forget you. I tried not to go up to Box Five when you were performing, and when I did, I tried not to watch you in the chorus, tried not to easily pick out your voice from the dozens who sang with you. But it was impossible. And that was when…" He drew in a deep breath. "Well," he said, and his voice carried a mixture of shame and longing. "You know the rest. I never should have lied to you. But one thing constantly led to another, Christine. At first I was content to simply observe you, to hear you sing; eventually I became obsessed with the idea of actually speaking with you, of teaching you and hearing your voice intermingle with mine even if it was entirely anonymous, from behind a glass wall. And when that alone was no longer enough…" He trailed off.

"Everything is different now," I said softly. "But…oh, Erik, if you had come to me, at the very first...if you had offered to teach me in person, if you had been kind…I don't know. I like to think I would have been kind too, that I wouldn't have been frightened. I don't know what would have happened. But I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, does it? Things are what they are, and we're here, and…" I took a shaky breath. "And we love each other."

Erik's hand tightened on my back. "Yes," he murmured, "yes, though even now I can scarcely conceive of it."

"I don't…I don't mean to prod," I said, clearing my throat, "but you never entirely answered my earlier question. About…why you left, and why you wouldn't kiss me."

He let out a breath. "Because," he said haltingly, "I began to realize last night how simple it would be for me to lose all of my self-mastery in one single moment…how simple it would be for the devil inside of me to finally fight its way out. And that is…absolutely terrifying to me, Christine. To think of sullying you in any way, of polluting your innocence with the darkness living inside me…it is unthinkable. I would rather die."

My hand traveled down from his jacket to rest atop his fingers on his knee. "Perhaps losing at least a trifle of your self-mastery isn't something for you to fear," I said carefully. "Perhaps…it would not be quite so unwelcome as you think."

Erik stiffened. "What do you mean?"

"What do _you_ think I mean?" I asked, feeling a flush up the back of my neck. When I heard him make a little growl of discontent in his throat, I gulped in a breath of air and gathered my courage; my voice was soft, a hesitant whisper so light it could hardly have been heard by anyone not close to my lips. "Perhaps…I no longer wish to remain unsullied."

Erik was so still, so quiet, that it almost unsettled me. I didn't dare look at him; my face was hot and it was growing difficult to breathe.

"You indulge me too much, my girl. I do not think you have the faintest idea of what you are actually saying, Christine," he said at last in a very tight voice, and then I did look at him, anger furrowing my brow. "No?" I asked. "And why would you think that?"

Erik grew visibly uncomfortable beneath my gaze, but I did not let my eyes stray from his. He slid his hand out from beneath mine and tucked it under his other arm, leaning away from me. "Because," he said, "if you did…you would never utter something so foolish. You don't understand me, Christine, and you cannot possibly be serious in any event. I _cannot_ allow myself to lose control, to surrender myself entirely to my…my baser instincts. When I have lost myself in anger even for a few moments, in the past…people have been harmed, sometimes innocent people, to my endless shame. Including you, little bird, if you recall. I have done things, said things that in some cases I can only faintly remember, things which fill me with horror and regret. Anger is not desire, of course…far from it. But…" He quickly turned his head away. "You haven't the faintest idea of some of the things I've done, the things I've felt when I've done them. I have only scratched the surface when I've ever so briefly told you about my time in Persia."

I sat very still, my eyes still fixed on his face. "Tell me, then," I said, my stomach tying itself in little knots.

"No. I don't want to," he said. "You can't imagine – "

I set my jaw, steeling myself. " _Tell me,_ " I said between my teeth.

Erik closed his eyes. "Deliver me," he muttered into the air, much as he had last night. I waited.

He took a deep breath in that long silence. "The first time I killed a man," he said at last with a great effort, "was not in Persia, but it set the stage for what followed. I was young, only a boy; my voice had not yet changed. He…wanted to harm me. He _had_ harmed me. I took his life that night without a second thought, without a moment's regret. And when I watched the life slip away from him…" He paused for a moment. "I felt…a perverse pleasure unlike almost anything I have ever known since. In that moment, I felt as powerful as God, Christine. It was intoxicating, and terrifying. Years later, in Persia…I felt it again, that awful power, that headiness, that pleasure. I hated myself for it. And like any drug, it became less immediately intoxicating over time; in pursuit of that feeling, and in the absence of anything else of which I knew to substitute for it, I committed more and more increasingly despicable acts, all with the Shah's blessing, of course – he had a great many political enemies and enemies of state who required punishment, and he took great pleasure himself in my…creative methods of disposal. I think somehow that was worse, that what I did was condoned, sanctioned, _requested_ even. I became widely known as the Angel of Death, but it was not a kindly term. The people at court began to think of me as some kind of demon incarnate, and I cannot say that I blame them." He took a shuddering breath. " _That_ is what lurks within me, the depth of horror to which I can sink when given half a chance, and thinking on it frankly makes me never want to touch you again. I am made up of death and darkness from head to foot, Christine, and it is not only outwardly. I have taken lives in a hundred different monstrous ways; their blood still invisibly stains my hands. I am not _fit_ for love, for compassion or care or intimacy; I have made myself unfit for it, and I cannot imagine that even your sweet nature would allow me near you after hearing all of this."

The room had begun to sway; I thought I was going to be sick but I fought it back with an iron will, even as my stomach gave a little heave. "Oh, Erik," I said finally, my voice so soft it was hardly audible. I swallowed hard, this next sentence taking a concerted effort. "You deem yourself unfit for love, and yet…in mercilessly punishing yourself for past sins, you unwittingly punish me as well."

His eyes slid back to meet mine, questioning silently. I curled my hands into fists in my lap. "When you touch me now," I said, and my cheeks grew warm again as I admitted this to myself as much as I admitted it to him, "I do not feel darkness, or death, or even harm. I feel _love_. Bliss. When you kiss me, it is the same. And when you _refuse_ to do so in some ill-conceived attempt to punish yourself, you deprive me too. I don't…I don't mean when you feel boxed in, or when it all feels like too much. That is different. I understand that, I think…and I would never want to hurt or overwhelm you by insisting that you touch me or that you allow me to touch you when you feel you cannot bear it. But when you abstain from it – from _me_ – out of nothing more than sheer self-loathing…it is not only you who is being punished."

Erik's lips had parted slightly during my speech; it seemed to me that his breathing had quickened. He regarded me with wide eyes, even sunken as they were.

"I suppose all of this has been a rather wanton and unexpected thing for a woman to say," I said, my cheeks still brightly colored with uncertainty and a dash of humiliation. "I'm sorry if…"

Erik's hands snaked out and pulled me roughly to him, so swiftly it made me gasp. "Don't apologize, little bird," he said, his voice growing husky. "Not for that. _Never_ for that. I have much to atone for, but _you…_ you have committed no great sins, I deem."

My heart pounded. "Am I frightening you?" he whispered desperately, and I shook my head. "No," I breathed, "no," and my fingers clumsily drifted up his gaunt cheeks and over his twisted ruin of a mouth. Part of me cared about his dark revelations and was horrified still; I wanted to forget them, wanted to lose myself in the man Erik was now, not be paralyzed and frightened by the man he had been long ago. _Kiss me,_ I thought desperately without saying the words, _please kiss me, please, make me forget,_ and his mouth crashed against mine as though he had read my thoughts like music notes scrawled across the page.

It was primal and shocking and absolutely blissful, and I did then what I had wanted to do ever since our lips had met in my flat; I let my tongue dart into his mouth and I relished his hoarse gasp. One of his hands roamed over my ribs until it rested just beneath my breast, and a whimper came out of me. "Touch me," I whispered, finally letting the words fall from my lips like water, "touch me, Erik, _please_ ," and he didn't argue, didn't question; his mouth parted under mine like the Red Sea beneath Moses' staff, his voice shuddered as he said my name, and his fingers fondled my shape through my clothes.

I arched against him, this new and intoxicating territory making me bold and careless. My own hands slid just a little into the opening of his vest, and he jerked backward slightly.

"Too much?" I asked between breaths.

"I don't know," he said, breathing raggedly himself. "I…I don't know."

It occurred to me suddenly that since he often liked showering me with rather sensuous epithets, he might perhaps like if I spoke similarly to him. " _Min Erik,_ " I murmured, "my silken-voiced _maestro,_ so tall, with such beautiful hands. It's only me, your Christine." Never in my life had I imagined saying such things to him; the back of my neck felt almost uncomfortably hot with embarrassment, but the threads of pleasure winding through my body from his touch were making me ache and behave in ways which would have scandalized the old Christine beyond expression.

"How can you speak this way to me?" he whispered incredulously, his eyes fixed upon mine with a mixture of molten desire and panic. A flush had begun to appear on his ashen face. "How can you gaze at me like that and not be afraid?"

I pressed a lingering kiss to his sunken cheek in response, strangely giddy with the fact that his face no longer held any revulsion for me – or if it did, it was almost negligible – and he held me fiercely. "No one," he said into my ear, letting his lips trace the shell of it and making me shiver, " _no one,_ Christine, has _ever_ called any part of me beautiful. Save one thing, and that was very long ago."

"Your voice?" I asked, lightly brushing my fingers over his throat with sudden boldness, and I felt him quake. "No," he breathed. "Well… _yes,_ but that isn't what I meant. A voice is…somewhat more intangible."

"What was it?" I whispered, my fingers fiddling idly with his jacket, running up and down the sides of his lapels. "Ah, little cats and their curiosity," Erik said dryly, but there was a heat-laden, rippling undercurrent in his voice.

"It was my hair," he said at length, and his voice went a little flat. "At one time it was very dark, black as raven's-feathers, and quite soft and thick. I grew it out, you know, when I was a young man. It was…my one simple vanity. And oh, how vain I was, for when one is deficient in nearly every other physical sense, one clings fiercely to whatever little vanities one can find."

My hands drifted to the fine, thinning strands at his temples and behind his ears. All grey now, I knew, with only a streak of black here and there. He stiffened, but allowed me. "That must have been quite something," I said softly, trying to picture him with a flowing mane of black hair and finding it strangely difficult to imagine.

Erik's voice was pinched, a little pained. "It was. Sometimes people would remark upon it, and it was the only thing, save my voice and my other mental and musical abilities, which made me glow with pride. Until I began nearing thirty, and my one physical vanity was gradually replaced by…well, quite the opposite. I thought, the moment I began losing my hair, and the moment what was left began to lose much of its color earlier than I had expected, that I was truly to be afforded _nothing_ in this life, that this was all a very cruel joke played upon me by a selfish, sneering God. Back then I rather do think I somewhat believed in God, though I had no desire whatsoever to worship him. Gleeful sadism was something I always loathed in other people, even during the darkest times in my life when I was employed by such people and I allowed myself…" He trailed off. "No," he said, "No, I won't speak of any of that again. Not now. You were right. Everything…is different now."

I kissed him fiercely without a second thought, my lips pressing lingeringly to his, and one of his hands entwined itself in my hair.

"Do you…do you truly think…that my hands are beautiful?" he asked in a strained whisper when I had gently pulled back and leaned my head against his chest.

"Oh, _yes_ ," I said softly, my eyes closed. "I always have. Even when you always wore gloves, in the old days, but most especially when you have gone without."

"And you…enjoy…that I am a great deal taller than you?" he asked somewhat cautiously. I could feel my face flush again. "Very much," I said.

His heartbeat was quickening beneath my cheek. "You are far too good to your very undeserving Erik, Christine," he said, and I took his hand and placed it on my clothed breast again, shocked at my own wantonness but almost unable to care. A soft puff of air and a little noise came out of him, and he met my mouth once more, exploring this time with his own tongue. It was hesitant and swift, but it made me ache.

 _Let's go to one of the rooms,_ I wanted to say, wanted to be bold enough to say it regardless of my previous determination not to do this until we'd moved to the country, and was swiftly gathering my courage to say those very words. But before I could, Erik sighed and leaned back. "Oh, Christine," he said with a smoldering undercurrent of longing in his voice. His fingers trailed down my side, and I arched my back a little. He sucked in a breath between his teeth. "Don't think me…ungrateful or unwilling to bend to your charms, _ma chére,_ but…we have a pair of managers to meet this morning, and although I cannot deny that I am more than tempted to while away a great many hours with you in this or some similar fashion…" His chin flushed, and he slowly dropped his hands from my body. "It would be…most unproductive, considering our immediate plans," he said at last, as though it were taking him a great deal of effort.

I straightened up, and swallowed my disappointment. "Perhaps we can spend our mornings like this in the very near future, however," I said with a spike of temerity, "when we go to the little house." _Perhaps before,_ I thought somewhat rebelliously, but didn't say.

Erik's eyes flared with interest; he quickly looked away and brought his hand up to the back of his neck. "Perhaps," he said in a small voice. "You ought to go to your room and pin up your hair, Christine. I need to…disguise myself."

I stood up and, almost as an afterthought, offered him my hands. Erik hesitantly took them and stiffly stood up. "Thank you," he said with some embarrassment. I knew he hated that his joints hurt, that sitting down and standing up was becoming a chore.

I felt a wave of tender, bittersweet affection and I wanted to kiss his hands, but I felt suddenly shy, even after everything that had just happened. In some ways it all felt like coming home after being away for a long while, but it also felt strange, unfamiliar, new.

Our hands lingered in each other's, and Erik's eyes settled somewhat uncertainly on mine. "I…" he said, and I knew he felt shy too, that he felt similarly lost in an unfamiliar port. All of that intimacy on the sofa had felt very strangely natural whilst it was happening, but now it felt almost overwhelming; in its tenuous aftermath, we were awkward and unsure with each other.

"I…I wouldn't presume," Erik said rather haltingly, "but, under the circumstances, I believe we should, perhaps, have another…discussion later. About…well, about the current nature of the…of the rules."

 _Or lack thereof,_ I thought. "I agree," I said, my cheeks warming under his steady gaze. "When we return."

"Yes," he assented, and slid his hands from mine. "Take your time," he said, "making yourself ready to go back up…it will take me a little time myself to properly apply my disguise."

I nodded, and as we began walking in different directions to our separate rooms, I suddenly turned. "Erik?" I said softly.

He paused, his back still to me. "Yes, Christine?"

I swallowed, feeling a little bubble of longing. "I love you."

He turned, then, and I saw a real smile pass across his face. _It transforms him, when he smiles,_ I thought, not for the first time, but certainly the first time seeing his entire face exposed. _It makes him look quite ordinary, in spite of everything._

"And I love you," he said, his voice infinitely gentle. He regarded me with tenderness and a little bewilderment all at once; I smiled back and ducked my head, walking quickly to my room.


	16. Chapter XVI - The Managers

**A/N: Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for being so patient, my dears. It's been a while. A lot has been going on that prevented me from finishing this newest installment as soon as I wanted to.**

 **Fun fact: most of what occurs in this chapter, i.e. the meeting with the managers, was originally slated to appear in Chapter 13. But at the time I wrote it, I realized that some of it seemed weirdly out of place and eventually came to the conclusion that I needed a bit more character and plot development before it actually happened the way I wanted it. With that in mind, I shelved it for a while and then heavily reworked the whole idea for its appearance in this chapter.**

 **Also, because what I'd written for this update ended up running so long and having a pretty good break point in the middle, I ended up splitting it into TWO chapters, this one and the next - so hopefully the double update makes up a bit for the wait!**

* * *

When we had made ourselves ready to go above and both returned to the sitting-room, Erik – acting almost as if nothing had happened earlier – insisted with a very businesslike demeanor that we should discuss how we were going to approach the visit with the managers. I had initially imagined I should follow Erik's lead, and said as much; he countered that while he would of course open the negotiations for me and be my support, I ought to be the one to proffer terms, and coached me on several points. I listened intently and practiced a little, but began to feel a growing sense of dread and a little thread of panic. "Oh, Erik," I said nervously, "I really don't know if I –"

Erik shook his head and cut me off, fixing me with his firm gaze. "Christine, you _must_. I cannot imagine that they should take you seriously in your shyness if your husband handles everything," he said. "These two are no strangers to strong-willed women, you understand. They deal with them regularly. I can tell you plainly that they dread renegotiating La Sorelli's contract as well as Carlotta's, but they do so because they have little choice. These women draw a crowd, command attention, _demand_ to be heard. You must learn to do the same, particularly since I will…not always be here to advocate or to defend. I know it might not come easily, but I have _seen_ you assert yourself and I know perfectly well that I ask nothing of which you are not already capable."

I glanced up at him in bemusement. "How changed you are," I said softly. "A month ago you should have insisted upon handling everything yourself, and anonymously at that."

"Yes, well," he said a little uncomfortably, "circumstances have dictated a somewhat different tack, haven't they? The Opera Ghost is retiring, and looking forward very much to domestic life." As my cheeks warmed a little, he looked at me. "Do you suppose they'll notice anything out of the ordinary? This will be in closer quarters than usual, and I worry that my appearance might not hold up to the weight of their stares."

My chest hurt, and I lightly touched his cheek – carefully, so as not to disturb the makeup. "I can't imagine they or anyone else will be staring very much," I said. "It's a very convincing disguise, although I do hate that you have to wear it. Promise me –" I took a deep breath. "Promise me that when we go to the house in the country, you won't feel very much need for masks, if any. You know now that I don't mind."

Erik was regarding me with his head slightly tilted, and the back of my neck tingled and grew warm. "You are far too good to your Erik, Christine," he said again, and I saw his gaze drop down to my mouth. His eyes lingered there for a long moment, but then swiftly, almost guiltily, they flicked back up to meet mine.

"We should go," he said, his voice soft, melting like butter along my spine. I swallowed and nodded. He had already put on gloves; I had been holding mine in my hand, and put them on reluctantly. "Would you like to know a secret, Erik?" I asked lightly. "I don't care much for wearing gloves."

"And why is that?" he asked with some amusement. I glanced at him. "I think you know why," I said pointedly, slipping my gloved hand into his, and he cleared his throat. "I have always enjoyed wearing them, myself," he said, "until very recently. My circulation has always been somewhat poor and my hands have therefore generally been quite cold. You, however, seem to have somewhat of a knack for warming them."

A slow flush came up in my face, and thankfully Erik changed the subject. "You don't suppose they'd allow us the use of Box Five to-night, do you?" he asked, and I furrowed my brow. "Why should they?"

"Oh," he said lazily, but with a spark of mischief in his voice, "no reason in particular, but I think perhaps I might inquire about it at the end of our negotiations. Of course I will give them no reason to suspect my true identity. One final curtain call for the Ghost, if you will, before he puts away all his tricks for good."

I felt a little knot in the pit of my stomach. "I don't know," I said. "I don't think it's a good idea."

"Perhaps you're right," Erik said with a little shrug, and it seemed he had let the matter go, but I had a strange inkling that this was not the end of it.

"Tread carefully, my Erik," I whispered, squeezing his gloved fingers with mine, and he looked down at me. "Don't fret, _gudinna,_ " he replied with a faint smile of his own. "I will have it all well in hand."

There was a brief pause. "Christine…call me that again," he asked, his voice a silken ribbon of longing, and I shivered with wistfulness of my own. He was not the only one who would have liked to while away several hours on the sofa or elsewhere, rather than traveling above for a meeting which I dreaded. We had things to do, but I didn't want to do them; I would much rather have spent every available moment this morning wrapped up tightly in his long arms while we explored each other's mouths, and perhaps even less-known or entirely unknown countries. I wanted to map out the angular lines of him with my hands as badly as I thought he wanted to do to me. But there would be plenty of time for that – I hoped – later.

"My Erik," I said softly, shyly, and I felt his hand tremble a little in mine.

"I wanted to tell you, sweeting," he said after a long silence, pausing to look at me when we had almost reached the Rue Scribe gate, "the reason I avoided that question you put to me not so very long ago – when you asked me to _try_ – it was because matters of the body and one's health can be somewhat…inexorable, and I cannot bear giving you false hope only to inadvertently dash it somewhere along the hard road ahead. So long as you understand that it is not much in my power to prevent my own demise…" He took a long breath, not looking at me. "I will certainly try."

The world seemed to stop for a moment as I crushed myself to him. "Erik," I whispered, my face buried in his coat, "I love you, I love you, thank you." I took his gloved hands and I kissed them, not caring about the leather shielding his skin from my lips. When I had gathered myself again, I lowered his hands and abruptly looked up at him with a flushed face, embarrassed beyond reason at my lack of restraint. "I'm sorry," I said somewhat stupidly.

"Good heavens, Christine," he said with soft astonishment, his fingers coming back up and hovering over my cheek, "My darling. My lovely, wonderful girl. Being caught somewhat off guard by the depth of your inexplicable sweetness is not so terribly offensive as to require an apology." His gloved fingers slid over my cheek and I closed my eyes. "I would kiss you," I heard Erik say somewhat haltingly, "with your permission, of course – were it not for this damnable makeup."

His kisses had long ago ceased to require my permission, but I saw little use in arguing the point. "Time for that later, I suppose," I said, opening my eyes, and he smiled. "Yes," he said, his voice soft and low, and there was a momentary, hungry look in his eyes that made my breath hitch and my belly tremble. _Why_ was he insisting on this meeting to-day? Why could it not wait until tomorrow?

But before I could think, before I could suggest, he had opened the gate and we had stepped into the bright sunlight, blinking.

* * *

We spoke to each other in hushed voices as we walked outside and he coached me again on the sorts of things we should say. When we had come around the side of the edifice and made our way through the main doors of the Opera house, I suddenly became aware of people looking at us, a few of whom I knew. My cheeks flushed and I felt a little anxious and irritable; there simply wasn't time to stop just at present to awkwardly greet anyone or to explain the man to whose arm I clung. I saw one woman in particular, with whom I had been somewhat friendly in the past, open her mouth and lift her hand as if she were about to call to me. I pretended not to notice her and swiftly steered Erik toward the manager's office – or perhaps he steered me, I wasn't sure which.

As I looked upon that looming office door, my mind was a tangled throb of nervousness; my heart pounded wildly and felt as though it were in my throat. I didn't know what the outcome of all of this would be, but I hoped – I _prayed –_ it would be favorable.

I didn't know if Erik truly knew how nervous I was, but I was determined to make him proud of me – provided, of course, that he would promise me to behave himself in turn. "Erik," I murmured, "you will promise me that you won't say or do anything rash in that office?"

He looked down at me with a faintly incredulous look in his eyes. "You wound me, Christine," he said, and I rolled my eyes.

"Fine," he said. "I promise." He lightly pinched my elbow, making me start with surprise, and then he rapped smartly upon the door. " _Messieurs le managers?_ " he asked in a clear, ringing voice. "We are busy!" came a somewhat annoyed voice from inside.

Erik frowned and stubbornly rapped upon the door again. After a long moment, it finally opened a little, and M. Richard's stern face peered out at us. "Mlle. Daaé, is it?" he asked with furrowed brow upon seeing me, and then abruptly looked somewhat askance at Erik. "I…do not believe I have had the pleasure, _monsieur,_ " he said stiffly.

"My apologies for not making an appointment, M. Richard," I said calmly, taking a deep breath and calling upon all of my skills as an actress to appear confident and assured. "We'll explain everything in a moment. Might we come in?"

M. Richard scowled. "I do hope this is important," he muttered brusquely, opening the office door a bit wider and motioning us inside. He cleared his throat. "M. Moncharmin and I are more than a trifle busy with our paperwork at present."

From behind the desk, M. Moncharmin looked up at us. "Come in, come in," he said genially. "Ah, don't mind Richard. He's quite the curmudgeon when there is paperwork to be done. Very single-minded. _Bonjour,_ Mlle. Daaé! And who might this be?"

"Erik Deschamps," Erik said with that strange manufactured cheerfulness, reaching out his hand and shaking both of theirs in turn with a firm grip. "My charming companion and I offer our sincere apologies for the interruption, of course. I am a lifelong patron of the arts, you see, and I have only recently returned from traveling abroad. I was very well-acquainted with the architect of this place, Charles Garnier, and I was somewhat familiar with M. Poligny, one of your predecessors – I am sure he mentioned me to you?"

M. Richard's brow furrowed. "Not that I recall –" M. Moncharmin elbowed him, smiling beatifically at Erik. I imagined the words _lifelong patron_ had immediately caught his interest, as Erik had known it would. "Of course," M. Moncharmin said in an oily voice. "M. Deschamps. What a pleasure to finally meet you. Richard and I are delighted. But…eh…what business does Mlle. Daaé have in all this?"

Erik glanced at me, and I cleared my throat. "M. Deschamps became acquainted with me during my days at the Conservatoire," I said, the previously rehearsed lie coming all too easily from my lips. "Upon his return from traveling abroad, he asked for my hand. We've recently been married." I briefly held up my hand to show the ring.

"Well, then, it seems congratulations are in order!" M. Moncharmin said with enthusiasm, and M. Richard nodded with stiff politeness. "Yes, congratulations," he said with considerably less excitement than his colleague. "I take it then that we must refer to you as Mme. Deschamps," he said to me. "Will you be leaving us?"

My eyes widened a little but I recovered myself quickly and forced a dazzling smile. "My goodness, no," I said with a laugh. "I can see how you might think that should be the case, but I see little reason to sacrifice my art now that I am married. My husband, of course, agrees."

"May we sit?" Erik asked, and M. Moncharmin stood up from the desk. "Of course," he said. "Richard, the chairs?"

M. Richard scowled a bit and pulled up two velvet-backed chairs from the corner. "I _sincerely_ hope that this business is important," he grumbled again. "It shall take me all day to do this dashed paperwork if we keep being interrupted."

As we seated ourselves, M. Richard joined M. Moncharmin behind the desk. "Now," M. Moncharmin said, "as it is happily not your resignation you have come to see us about, what precisely _is_ this regarding?"

Erik cleared his throat and spoke first. "It is my understanding," he said, steepling his fingers, "that Mlle. Daaé – pardon me, that is to say, Mme. Deschamps – has been offered only a very small role in the upcoming production of _Robert le diable._ Might I ask why?"

M. Richard's face turned a little red. "Well, I –"

I placed my hand on Erik's arm, hoping that this was, as we had discussed, merely part of the plan and that he did not actually intend to argue this on my behalf. "My dear," I said in a somewhat cloyingly sweet tone, "allow me." I turned to the managers. " _Messieurs_ , my husband is very cross about my part in _Robert le diable_ , with good reason – but as it happens, while I should ordinarily prefer a more substantial role, it will be more beneficial at the moment for me to have only a small part. I love the Opera and I am, as I mentioned, devoted to my art, but I wish to spend some time with my new husband, of course. You understand."

"Certainly," M. Moncharmin said with a trifle less cheerfulness, shooting a glance at M. Richard, "although I hope it will not affect your work in _Faust._ "

"Yes, I have been meaning to speak to you about that as well," I said, straightening and remembering Erik's instructions. _Look them both in the eye, and do not flinch._ "While I have every intention of performing up to my usual standard in _Faust_ when I am onstage, I am requesting every other performance off for the remainder of the run. I am confident that my understudy, Mlle. Bisset, will do quite well in my stead on the nights which I am not performing."

The managers looked at each other dubiously. Erik glanced at me, his arms folded and his body language stiff; I could tell that he was still acclimating himself to this, that he was exercising a great deal of willpower to disappear into his role and to allow me this whim of mine without complaint.

"So much for not sacrificing her art," M. Richard grumbled not quite under his breath, and M. Moncharmin gave him an exasperated look. " _Richard,_ " he said.

"My wife is very capable," Erik said smoothly, "in case you had not noticed; might I draw your attention to the latest review in _L'Epoque,_ in which my wife – known, of course, as Mlle. Daaé in the papers – was described as 'shining in the role of Siebel.' In fact, if memory serves, praise for her performance took up an entire paragraph, while hardly a mention in the whole review was made of your illustrious prima donna _La Carlotta_ as Marguerite. Rather a predictable performance on _her_ part, I should say – no wonder she has not garnered a glowing review herself, despite her devoted little following."

M. Richard bristled again at this, and I suddenly worried that Erik was speaking in a manner too similar to the Ghost's infamous notes, but M. Moncharmin leaned forward with some interest. "What exactly are you proposing?" he asked. "I have an inkling that this is something more than simply requesting time off."

"Indeed," Erik said, and glanced at me again. "With my wife's permission, I shall get right to the point." I nodded primly, still reeling from the unfamiliarity of these roles we were playing. "I have never before made a donation to this particular Opera house, you see," Erik said to the managers, "though I had spoken of it occasionally with M. Poligny. But I am willing to do so now in order to, among other things, compensate for any inconvenience in regards to my wife taking time off during _Faust_." He looked at me, and I took up where had left off, gathering my courage. "And in that event," I said firmly, letting a little false distaste seep into my tone, "I would also request, due to the rather… _minute_ size of my role in _Robert le diable,_ that I be allowed only one rehearsal a week for this particular production. I will, however, commit to appearing in every public performance during the run. Barring any unexpected emergencies, of course." I meant this to refer vaguely to Erik's health, of course, but the managers – having taken this statement rather differently than I intended – exchanged swift glances.

"This is a…very indelicate question, and you will pardon me, I hope – but it must be asked," M. Richard said with a twitch of his moustache, and an askance look at Erik. He cleared his throat. "Are you with child, Mme. Deschamps?"

The breath left my throat, though I tried not to let it show, and I swore I could feel something of a chill from beside me where Erik sat in his chair. "I – no," I said, speaking as calmly as possible, forcing a smile again. "Of course not. I simply refer to any sudden illness or other unexpected circumstance." I didn't dare look at Erik. Suddenly thoughts of a very different nature began flooding my mind, the very opposite of the desire which had hovered over us like a thick cloud since earlier this morning. In the stead of hazy bliss and half-formed fantasies, cold practicality now struck me. A child. Erik's child. Of course if we truly consummated our marriage at any point, that was a distinct possibility. That probable conclusion was, to my chagrin, more terrifying than joyful, and I couldn't begin to pick apart my thoughts on the matter when I was so distracted by what was happening in the office.

"Of course," M. Richard said flatly, nodding and tapping his pen on the desk. "Well, we shall have to think it over –"

"That isn't everything, I'm afraid," I said, my heart in my throat, keeping to the matter at hand and doing everything in my power to keep my manner cool and businesslike. "The donation carries…other stipulations."

M. Richard's eyes narrowed, and M. Moncharmin looked somewhat uncomfortable, though mildly intrigued.

"I apologize for my colleague's earlier bluntness, Mme. Deschamps, but I am sure you understand – we do, after all, have a business to run, and we must plan for these things. M. Deschamps, if you do not mind my asking, just how… _sizeable_ a donation are we discussing, in any event?" M. Moncharmin asked cautiously.

Erik slowly extracted a cheque out of his jacket pocket and slid it across the desk, though he kept a firm grip upon it. When the managers saw it, their eyes nearly popped out.

"M. Poligny and I occasionally discussed the subject of the Opera's finances, somewhat to the chagrin of his colleague, M. Debienne. Unless expenses have changed considerably in the time I have been abroad," Erik said lazily, though his eyes sparkled with triumph, "I believe this should be enough to cover production costs for approximately a year."

"Richard?" M. Moncharmin asked faintly, and Richard nodded. "What are the exact terms?" he asked, a measure of cordiality having crept into his stiff voice.

I looked both managers in the eye at intervals. "A renewal of my contract," I said, attempting to sound as brazen and as undeterred as possible, "with the stipulation of _at least_ two leading roles a year for the next three years in addition to substantial supporting roles in other productions. This is, of course, the bare minimum that I am asking. If I prove myself to you gentlemen – which I most certainly intend – I expect that I will, in due course, be offered more." It felt strange to be saying these things; it had begun to feel almost as though I was not in my body, as though I were watching myself speak. I realized that I had taken on an entirely different persona, just as Erik was wont to do. _Christine the Diva,_ I thought to myself, and held back a laugh.

"No more small roles like the one she has been handed in _Robert le diable,_ " Erik added, his voice growing hard. "No more chorus roles. No more pittances."

"My dear," I said between my teeth, though loudly enough that the managers could hear. "Calm yourself. I have it well in hand."

He looked at me approvingly. "Of course you do," he said calmly, and his shoulders relaxed a bit. "Pardon me, my love." He smiled and shrugged at the managers. This was somewhat part of the plan, of course – to make a show of him being my fiercest ally, a husband who was wrapped about his wife's little finger and very agreeable to her whims. The dialogue was somewhat improvised, but I was pleased that it had all come together so naturally. _Perhaps because all good lies have a very small measure of truth,_ I thought to myself, and the room suddenly felt a bit warm.

M. Moncharmin looked greedily down at the cheque, which was still grasped firmly in Erik's hand, and shared a glance with his partner. M. Richard had his arms folded and scowled at M. Moncharmin. "Are we to be bribed, then?" he asked pointedly.

M. Moncharmin shifted in his seat. "Richard," he said rather uncomfortably, but thoughtfully too, "we can _use_ this. Think of the story we can spin, all from the publicity of that review. A glowing ingénue, popular, talented, and devoted to her art, but insofar unwilling to truly take the spotlight out of modesty and shyness. The other patrons will eat it up, especially when she finally makes a triumphant debut in a leading role." He glanced at me. "That is, of course, if _you_ are agreeable to that sort of publicity," he said somewhat haltingly, and I smiled calmly at him in response. "I see no reason why not," I said, feeling an inward spike of triumph mixed in with a little panic. _Leading roles. Two, maybe more a year. Me, a poor country girl from Sweden. Christine Deschamps, neé Daaé. Soon-to-be widow, rising star. My god, what has happened to me? How is this all spinning about me so fast?_

"You're out of your mind, Moncharmin," M. Richard muttered. M. Moncharmin let out a little bark of a laugh. "That tone means he concedes the point," he said to us, and M. Richard glared at him, his moustache bristling.

"Ah, very good. Then we are agreed?" Erik asked, putting the cheque back in his pocket and holding out his hand. "The cheque will be signed and hand-delivered upon the drawing up of a new contract, of course," he said. M. Moncharmin glanced at M. Richard, who nodded. They shook hands with both Erik; upon seeing my gimlet-eyed glare (as I drew on as much of my inner Carlotta as I could attempt), they shook hands with me as well.

"If you will pardon me, gentlemen," Erik said, "I have one more request - a trifle, really - if you will indulge my curiosity on the matter." I suddenly felt a cold little trail of ice up my spine. _Oh, Erik,_ I thought. _Be careful, be careful._

M. Richard rolled his eyes, but M. Moncharmin nodded, no doubt having become even more pliable than usual now that a great deal of money was involved. "Yes?" he asked. "What more can we do for you?"

Erik tapped his fingers on his knee. "I have heard very strange rumors about a certain box," he mused. "Which one was it? Ah, yes – Box Five. I was wondering if it would be possible to reserve it for my wife and me this evening for the performance of _La Juive._ But of course I imagine, as it is one of the best seats in the house, you must of course have already sold it for to-night."

The managers exchanged very nervous glances. "I do not know if your wife is aware," M. Moncharmin said with a look at me, "or else she might have told you, but – and be certain that we intend no disrespect – Box Five has unfortunately been shut up. No-one sits there."

"Oh?" Erik asked, feigning surprise. "And why is that?"

"It has been deemed unsafe until further notice," M. Richard said briskly, shooting a pointed look at M. Moncharmin, who looked very uncomfortable indeed.

"Is it being repaired, then?" Erik asked, still playing at ignorance. "But I have noticed no work crews in that part of the theatre – Mme. Deschamps was kind enough to give me a brief tour of the place, not long ago. I hope that was quite all right," he said genially. M. Richard closed his eyes in seeming exasperation.

"It could not possibly be due to the rumors, could it?" Erik asked with a note of mischief slowly creeping into his voice. "Is it true what they say, then? That the box is… _haunted?_ Can it be that you fine gentlemen _believe_ these outlandish rumors?"

"What exactly have you heard, M. Deschamps?" M. Moncharmin finally asked, glancing for a moment at me. I swallowed and gave a little shrug. "I am not as superstitious as some of the other girls in the theatre," I said, and the brazen half-lie tasted bitter on my tongue. "I personally give little credence to such talk. He did not hear about the matter from me."

"My wife speaks truly," Erik said with a tilted little smile on his face. "But one does pick up quite a lot of gossip from these very talkative walls. I have overheard the most _delightful_ stories. Ladies' gloves disappearing into thin air, disembodied voices, chairs moving about of their own accord…I daresay I am most intrigued to find out for myself whether the rumors are true."

"Idle gossip, M. Deschamps," M. Richard said brusquely. "Nothing more."

"Ah, well…" Erik said with a sigh. "It is a shame. How long shall the box be shut up for repairs? I shall of course want to know the moment it is available."

I thought for certain that would be the end of it, that some further excuse or lie would be proffered by the managers and Erik would let the matter drop, but M. Moncharmin folded his hands on the desk with a measure of nervousness and cleared his throat. " _Monsieur,"_ he said, "I shall be perfectly frank with you, though I daresay my colleague –" and here he shot a look at M. Richard, who seemed to be glowering more and more by the moment, "– disapproves of the idea that we should be forthcoming about this particular…problem. Several ticket-holders who have been seated in that box have had – shall we say – less than amiable experiences. No-one has been bodily _harmed,_ mind you, but the disturbances – which no-one yet has been able to explain – caused enough distress and distraction that these particular audience members insisted upon being refunded. It was eventually decided that we would no longer permit ticket sales for Box Five for the foreseeable future. Ghost or no ghost, we must think of our guests."

"Oh, you misunderstand me, my good man," Erik said enthusiastically. "I should be _most_ delighted if there was, in fact, a ghost! I have studied the subject of hauntings extensively. Are you gentlemen at all familiar with the subject of spiritualism? No? Well, no matter." His eyes sparkled with mischief. "You know, I have a capital idea. What if you permit Mme. Deschamps and myself to attend the performance of _La Juive_ tonight free of charge if we sit in the box and discover your ghost for ourselves? Since you do not make any money from the sale of the box at present, it can hardly hurt to allow it just this once."

The managers glanced once more at each other – M. Moncharmin looked intrigued; M. Richard looked exasperated. "Moncharmin?" he growled with another little twitch of his moustache. M. Moncharmin looked very nervous indeed. "I…I don't know…" he said uncertainly. "I do hope that any possible unpleasantness would not dissuade you from extending your patronage to this Opera House, _monsieur._ "

"On the contrary," Erik said with a smile, "it is one of the reasons I decided to make a donation. A haunted Opera House! Imagine that! It is too delightful for words."

"I don't like it," M. Richard said with yet another bristle of his moustache. "I do not think it at all prudent to indulge this superstitious nonsense. We have had enough to deal with ourselves."

"But, Richard..." M. Moncharmin said rather helplessly, "surely it couldn't do any harm. Perhaps it will all turn out for the best. It has been a very long time, after all. Perhaps the disturbances have ceased for good."

"Perhaps we ought to let them think it over, my dear," I said, putting my hand on Erik's arm, thinking it might be to our benefit that I appear the voice of reason. "You have been very kind to indulge my husband, _messieurs_ ; this sort of thing really does excite his intellect, you understand. By any chance might the new contract be drawn up by to-night? We can discuss this further at that time, perhaps."

M. Moncharmin appeared increasingly flustered, and M. Richard let out a long-suffering sigh as he looked at his partner. "Yes," he said. "I suppose you ought to come back to-night. The contract will be ready before the performance of _La Juive;_ may we expect you twenty minutes prior?" Erik smiled. "Of course," he said.

M. Richard nodded stiffly. "We shall of course amend the schedule for _Faust_ to accommodate your… _requests,_ " he said, not quite managing to keep his tone clear of any indignance. "Mlle. Bisset will be notified immediately."

"I thank you. And if you would be so kind," I said suddenly, "my husband and I should prefer that – for now at least – I keep my maiden name on the billing."

"More theatrical," Erik said amiably.

M. Richard's face was growing somewhat mottled. "Any _other_ requests?" he inquired with palpable irritation.

"No, I believe that will be all," I said, pretending to be oblivious to his and M. Moncharmin's clear disquiet. "We thank you for your time, _messieurs_. We must let you get back to your paperwork, yes? We shall see you to-night."

M. Richard showed us out. "Good day, Mme. Deschamps. M. Deschamps," he said with what sounded something like forced respectfulness, and as M. Moncharmin faintly said, "Yes, good day," from his position behind the desk, M. Richard quickly shut the door behind us when we had crossed its threshold into the hall. "You are out of your MIND, Moncharmin!" I heard him bellow behind the door, and M. Moncharmin's voice pled for him to hush. I could tell that Erik wanted to linger, wanted to listen, but I pulled him away. "Come _on_ ," I whispered.

"They are wondering," Erik said when we had gone a little distance away from the office, "where this newfound spark of yours came from, how the shy little foreigner they originally signed has come into her own so quickly. I saw it in their eyes, and I am certain that I heard the start of just such a conversation before you insisted against my eavesdropping." His own eyes sparkled as he looked at me. "You handled yourself very well," he said with pride, and I blushed and looked away. "I did my best," I said. "I'm not sure it was _very_ good. It was so abrupt, so unnatural. I don't know if I was very convincing. But…but thank you."

Erik regarded me as though he wanted to press the matter, but refrained.

"I am not at all sure it was prudent of you to request the box for to-night," I said quietly with a grimace, "but as long as we keep our heads clear and you don't try any mischief, I suppose it isn't any great harm."

"There you go again, Christine, accusing me of mischief," he said with mock indignity, and I shot him a look. He shrugged. "If they refuse to lend us the use of the box," he said, his voice stiff and resigned, "I _suppose_ , for your sake, I will…accept it. I do want to take you to the performance, Christine. I want to sit with you and be your husband in public life even if only in a very small way. But I find I like you being in a favorable mood toward me, and I neither wish to risk that nor your safety by being unable to compromise with those two buffoons."

My gaze softened; the knot in my stomach eased. "Thank you," I said. "I know how important it is to you. I understand. I do. But thank you for taking so much else into account."

Suddenly behind us, we heard a door open. Looking back, I saw M. Moncharmin following us with a rather red face. "Pardon me," he said when he had caught up to us, "I am…glad to have caught you. My colleague and I have agreed, due to the generosity displayed by your donation, that we will be _more_ than glad to lend you the use of the requested box this evening. Free of charge."

"Well now," Erik said genially, "that was not so very difficult, was it?"

"You don't know Richard," M. Moncharmin said, still catching his breath from following us so quickly. He was somewhat of a small man in stature, though not in girth. "He is…difficulty personified. Don't tell him I said that, of course."

"Of course not," Erik said, his eyes glinting. "Well, my dear? Shall we accept their offer?"

I sighed; Erik would no doubt be gloating about this for hours yet to come. "Of course," I said. "We accept, M. Moncharmin, and thank you."

M. Moncharmin nodded, leaning his hands on his knees for a moment. "That's settled, then," he said with a little wheeze. "I…look forward…to seeing you again this evening, M. and Mme. Deschamps." He straightened, and walked with considerably more slowness back to the office.

I looked at Erik, who looked positively triumphant. "Oh, don't look at me that way," I said with another roll of my eyes, though a smile was starting to tug at my lips. "You always get your way, don't you?"

"Not always," he said, and I wasn't sure why, but a faint flush crept up the back of my neck.

The next few moments, as we headed toward the front doors, were spent in silence. "There is a great deal of time left until _La Juive_ this evening," Erik said at last, his voice outwardly thoughtful but carrying an undercurrent of suggestiveness which made me swallow hard. "Indeed. What shall we do with all that time, I wonder?" I asked in a moment of boldness, with a voice that didn't entirely sound like mine.

"If it is not too much to ask – given that I am aware that you are not always partial to being under the earth – would you do me the honor of accompanying me below again?" he asked, and this time his voice sounded very close to my ear in a far too intimate fashion, though his lips were high above me. I shivered. "Perhaps we ought to go to the flat instead," I said, "at least for a little while, and go below after the performance to-night."

"I suppose that would be only fair," Erik said, his voice a little husky; his gloved fingers skated discreetly up my arm before putting it in his. I swallowed again, feeling little tingles of remembered pleasure on my skin where he had touched me through my clothes.


	17. Chapter XVII - The Wolf at the Door

**A/N: Friendly heads-up, folks; on the off chance that you're reading this on a school or work computer, the time has come for me to recommend you wait until you get home to read this chapter. Ahem.  
**

 **And don't worry; there's going to be plenty more where this came from. We have a very long way to go until the end of this story.**

* * *

We took a cab to my flat, and spoke very little on the way; Erik's hand hardly left mine and he seemed distracted beyond measure. I could feel the warmth of him beside me, the heat of his ordinarily chilled body practically bleeding into the air around us; rather than feel panicked by his nearness or suffocated by his unspoken desire, I felt a sharp delight and desire of my own, a lightning-hot thread of longing which crackled through me like a little flame.

The flat was reached, the driver paid; it all seemed very ordinary as we ascended the little steps to my front door. But in my head I saw over and over again the image of his hands caressing me earlier this morning, and remembered how I had felt when he kissed me; in my eagerness to open the door I almost dropped my key.

I stripped off my gloves and hung up my wrap once we were inside, and suddenly turned to see Erik still standing behind me, his own gloves in one hand. His eyes fixated on me for a moment, and I felt my cheeks grow warm again. "I'm going to show you the locks to-night," he said, "the ones on the two main entrances underground. They may prove a trifle complicated to one unfamiliar with their use – I designed them that way. You must swear to not tell another living soul how to operate them once you get the knack. The daroga is the only other person who knows how to open those doors."

"I thought you didn't even like the daroga," I said dryly, and Erik grimaced. "I do not _dis_ like him. He can be a dashed nuisance, but he has his uses. And..." He paused, his expression growing thoughtful, almost soft. "We have been through a great deal together. Long ago."

My curiosity piqued at once, but Erik's demeanor suggested that he was in no mood to speak further on the subject, and I didn't press him. "I won't tell anyone else about the doors, when you show me how," I said. "I swear." I held up my hand with half-mock solemnity, and Erik's own fingers darted out for a moment, trailing lightly along my palm. "Such a pretty little hand," I thought I heard him say, though it was too swift and too low for me to be certain. My breath hitched, and I felt dizzy with warmth.

After a moment, when I had recovered my wits, I longed for more contact, but he drew away from me to hang up his coat and hat. I suddenly felt awkward and shy, and stepped back. I didn't want to inadvertently hover about him like some sort of lovesick schoolgirl. When had our positions changed so drastically, I wondered? When had I begun to chase him, too?

When had I started to want him so badly?

"Would you object if I remove my disguise?" Erik asked, turning back to face me, and I shook my head. "Of course not," I replied.

"I shall have to reapply it of course – before we go to _La Juive_ to-night, and sign your contract," he said, "but that's quite all right. All of this stuff on my face makes me itch and I cannot abide the thought of wearing it for so many hours before we go back."

I smiled a little; he seemed so ordinary, so vulnerable all of a sudden, and a wave of affection passed over me. "It's quite all right, Erik," I said, and then my brow furrowed. "How will you reapply it here?" I asked. "You'll have to go back to the underground house before the performance."

"I intend to," Erik said. "I shall have to change into fancy-dress for this evening anyway. And then I intend to come to fetch you in a cabriolet so that we might arrive at our destination in a style befitting a rich gentleman and lady." He gave an exaggerated bow, and I laughed as I knew he wanted me to do, though I thought I saw a swift shadow of pain cross his face as he bent low. I almost said something, almost went to him, but he straightened, and his eyes became bright again, and I inexplicably began to forget what I had been going to say.

"I'll be able to reapply the nose, at least, to protect me from distant scrutiny when I travel to the underground house to do the rest. As it happens I do keep some of the adhesive in a little tin in my coat pocket, in the event I ever find myself in need of it while we are out," he said, and then suddenly took a deep breath and gestured vaguely at the center of his face. "That is…you won't…you won't object if…"

"If you remove it while you're here? You know I won't," I said softly. "I thought we'd had that settled."

"Yes, I…I am still attempting to acclimate myself to your astounding tolerance on that particular matter," Erik said in what was almost a mumble, and I suddenly noticed, with a touch of fascination, that the tips of his ears had turned somewhat pink.

"Well," he said somewhat awkwardly, "I'll…" He pointed in the direction of the washroom and then hurriedly crossed the hall to get to it, closing the door behind him.

I seated myself on the sofa, awaiting his return and, after some reflection, taking the opportunity to let my hair down. Some minutes later, Erik emerged from the washroom with his face clean and unencumbered, looking very nervous. His own sparse hair was a little mussed, his sallow cheeks holding a little more color than usual, and despite the somewhat off-putting nature of his face, I found the sight strangely endearing. His gaze traveled to my hair, and I saw him swallow.

I patted the space on the sofa next to me, and he sat down slowly, not meeting my eyes. "You're sure, Christine?" he asked, his voice quiet and anxious. "You're sure you don't mind it?" He didn't have to name the source of his anxiety; I knew it without having to ask.

"I don't mind it," I said with a shake of my head, and I shifted a little closer to him to prove it. He flinched and I took a sharp breath, leaned back. "I'm sorry," I muttered.

Erik met my eyes then; he looked at me with a clear, steady gaze. "Little bird," he said, "What did I tell you about apologizing for things which do not require reproach? My ingrained responses to certain stimuli are not your fault. They are the culmination of weary years of harsh experience." His eyes flicked up to my hair again, and he took a deep breath. "I regret to say that it is very much in spite of your...extraordinarily kind and baffling attentions. Old habits cannot be unlearned so quickly, it seems, even in the face of unthinkable tenderness. But you have been very patient with me, regardless, and that…" He met my eyes again, and cleared his throat. "It means a great deal," he said, his voice thick with awkward emotion.

"Erik," I said softly, and raised my hand to touch his cheek, though I quickly caught myself and paused in mid-air. My hand hovered, and my eyes, which were locked on his, asked the question for me. I had touched his face before, but something had changed. This seemed vastly different, somehow – almost as if I were asking to do it for the first time.

Erik sucked in a breath, his eyes darting to my hand and back to me again. His mouth opened as if to say something, and then closed again. He had gone somewhat stiff, as though he wanted nothing more than to be able to withdraw into a great shell the way tortoises were apt to do. But a long moment passed, and then another, and then, painfully, he gave a single curt nod.

I let out a breath I hadn't known I had been holding; Erik closed his eyes as my fingers drifted across the sharp planes of his face, the soft, leathery skin, the thin grey hair streaked with black clinging to his scalp. "I love you," I breathed, and it was almost shocking to realize just how much, how painfully my love for him seemed to fill every part of me. "I love you," I whispered again, and I held his face gently in both hands, laid soft little kisses on his forehead, his gaunt temple, his sunken cheek.

"Why, Christine?" he asked in a murmur, his voice trembling. "How is all of this possible?"

"I daresay it doesn't matter _how_ it happened, only that it has," I said, laying a full, deep kiss on his mouth which made him quiver all over. "But if you must know," I continued softly, "I think it has always been in me, or at least the capacity for it; for a long time I was too frightened of you, too intimidated to allow it to take shape. You were so…austere, so demanding, in the old days. I didn't know how to love you, and for a time I didn't want to, even when I began to care for you. I certainly wanted your approval, even when I was angry or afraid, but it all felt far too overwhelming for me to want anything else." I paused for a moment, catching my thoughts. Erik's eyes – amber-colored and solemn, half-hidden by the mix of light and shadows one of the lamps cast upon his face – were fixed on me all the time. "I cannot begin to tell you what it meant," I continued softly, "when I realized what great pains you were taking to change your approach – when I realized that your own talk of love was entirely sincere. The gentler and more respectful you have been, the more the feeling inside me has matured. I think…it simply needed room to breathe, to bloom." I smiled faintly. "Like a marigold, if you will."

Erik had remained very silent and still throughout this revelation; now his hand slid lightly over my waist and then curled tightly into the fabric of my basque at the small of my back. His other hand hovered just below my jaw, one finger gently sliding over the pulse at my neck. "Christine, forgive me. I want to kiss you… _here,_ " he whispered. "May…may I?"

"Of course you may," I said a trifle breathlessly, and little sparks seemed to explode behind my fluttering eyelids as he leaned forward and his mouth caressed that space. A small, high-pitched moan escaped me before I could call it back.

Erik inhaled sharply. "Oh, if you knew the things you made me think and feel," he rasped into my skin, his lips trailing along my throat and making me clutch at him, "if you _knew_ , my dove, you might not let me stay here with you. You might very well shrink, and flee, just as before, and be perfectly justified in it. Perhaps you should do so."

"I don't want to," I whispered. "I want to be here, with you," and he groaned into my neck. "Christine," he said between his teeth as a long shiver traveled down my spine, "my little marigold, my beautiful bride, you are in very great danger indeed. The wolf in the woods has come to your door and lain down on the step; he has been starving and is _so very hungry._ You should perhaps order him to leave, for ravenous hunger or no, he is nothing if not very obedient to your demands."

"Or perhaps," I said, raking my fingers down the front of his jacket, "I ought to invite him all the way in." Erik sucked in a ragged breath. "That sounds very foolish," he said with a complete lack of conviction, and I let out a breathless little laugh.

"I want something," I whispered with a sudden little whim of wickedness. "Will you give it to me?"

I felt Erik stiffen with surprise. "Christine..." he muttered, and as I looked at him, a flare of tortured panic appeared in his eyes. His trembling fingers slid lightly down my flushed cheeks. "Oh, this face," he breathed. "That unfathomable blush, those lovely parted lips inviting me to my ruin. You are a fantasy come alive from my most fevered dreams. Tell me, Christine, am I imagining every moment of this exquisite scene?"

"You didn't answer my question yet," I breathed, and Erik pressed me against him, burying his face in my hair. " _That depends on what you want_ ," he said wryly in an almost unsettling imitation of my voice, and I laughed again. "Don't make fun," I said. "I mean it."

"Tell me, then," he said in his own voice, which was somewhat muffled by my hair.

"I want you to come to my room, Erik," I whispered, my cheeks ablaze with my own shocking boldness. "I don't care about the wolf." The old panic seized me for a moment, that pearl-clutching prudishness I had clung to for so long in bygone days, but it was entirely overcome now by the flush of desire, and in a few moments, no trace of that shrinking child remained. I had all but forgotten about that unpleasant assumption made by M. Richard in the manager's office, and the disconcerting way it had made me feel; perhaps it was simply that for the moment, I no longer cared for possibilities and consequence. I simply knew that I wanted Erik to touch me, far more than he already had; if I did not have his hands on me, I felt that I would die.

I stood up from the sofa, dragging Erik up with me, who appeared to be following my lead as helplessly and meekly as a lamb is led by the shepherd. I pressed my back against my bedroom door, drawing him down into another long kiss. "Christine, I don't...I don't quite know if...oh, Christine, you beautiful little fool, _what are you doing?_ " Erik said between short gasps.

I fumbled with the knob behind me. The door abruptly swung open, and I stumbled a little. The room was fairly small, and it only took a few steps for the backs of my knees to hit the bed.

I put Erik's hands on my hips and he hissed between his teeth. "Come here," I whispered, "come here with me," and I leaned back so that I was reclining on the bed; I tried to shimmy backward so that my legs wouldn't be dangling off, but my skirts were a nuisance. I wanted very badly to remove my dress – and my shoes – but as yet I didn't quite dare.

Erik had leaned forward somewhat, but his body was stiff and unyielding; I tugged on his arms, but he just stayed there, at the end of the bed, looking at me. He put me in mind of a tall, gangly statue, a mute and haggard (though very well-dressed) scarecrow in the field.

"Erik," I said plaintively, and I saw him swallow. After a long moment he slowly crawled into bed with me, but he was quiet, and pensive. He lay beside me, on my small, narrow bed – the side of which he barely fit, and only fit as well as he did because he was such a thin man; as for his height, his feet dangled off at the end. He propped up his head on his hand and stared at me for a long time, and I did my best to meet his gaze.

"You astonish me, Christine Deschamps," he said in a voice which was barely a whisper, and I kissed him long and full on the mouth. A small sound escaped him, an exhalation of sheer needful bliss. His hand traced the curve of my side and I arched into his palm, which made his eyes come alight, his mouth turn up at the corners.

He moved forward, his hand still clutching the swell of my hip, and trailed his lips along my throat again. I thought to myself how very nice it was that nothing he did which gave me pleasure ever appeared to escape his notice – and as his breath warmed my skin, I let out a gasp when his tongue followed suit for just a moment.

"Christine, you are so, so _soft_ ," he whispered in a little sob of breath, "so soft and beautiful and good, I can hardly bear it," and I held him to me, my longing sharp and aching and unfinished, a hanging series of notes in the air waiting for their denouement.

He kissed my wrists, my palms. He held them to his face with his eyes closed, his manner worshipful but strangely stiff and prepared, almost as if he were waiting for me to pull my hands away, to slap him and tell him _It's not all right._

But of course I didn't – why would I? Not even the old Christine would have done that, I thought, and I wondered if Erik knew that.

 _So much cruelty,_ I thought sorrowfully as I smoothed the thin greyed hair back from his temples. _So much needless cruelty doled out upon you and by you in turn over so many long years. So much pain contained in a single person, so many unimaginable bitter burdens and razor-sharp regrets._

Erik relaxed under my hands, sank his head down into the pillow and against my fingers and sighed.

"I find myself overcome with a very ill-conceived notion," he said. "A whim, if you will. Part of me would very much like to have out with it at last, all at once."

"Have out with what?" I asked, laying my head against his bony chest and hearing the slightly irregular _thump-thump_ of his heartbeat.

Erik swallowed. "Logically, I think to myself that if you have brought me here, in this room – " He paused, his eyes still closed. "In this _bed_ ," he continued haltingly, "then – it follows that you cannot be entirely unconscious of certain…inclinations on my part, or...perhaps...on yours. Then again, it is entirely possible that you are far more innocent than I ever surmised."

"I am innocent," I said blithely, "though only in body. Certainly not in mind."

Erik's eyes slitted open at that, and I saw flashes of gold beneath his lids. "How interesting," he said, and his voice put me somewhat in mind of a cat, tail flicking idly back and forth as it carefully and intently watches a canary. Patient, curious, yet predatory.

I blushed. "I suppose you'll ask me to elaborate," I said with an effort.

"Not at all," he said with somewhat forced nonchalance. "I do not seek to elicit your discomfort by demanding insight into the innermost contents of that most intriguing mind of yours. You have trained me well in that regard. However, if _you_ are of a mind to voluntarily offer up that information –"

"I think about you touching me," I said in a voice so soft it was hardly audible. "I think about it very often, even when I am not with you. When I _am_ with you, it is worse."

Erik maintained his cool composure, his eyes still half-closed, although I saw him swallow again. "You will forgive me if this is an altogether impertinent question," he said, "but… _where_ precisely do you imagine me touching you that leads you to believe such thoughts are devoid of innocence?"

"This morning, Erik – don't you remember?" I asked quietly. "That was something I had wanted for quite some time."

Erik was very quiet, and I wondered if he was thinking about it too. "Is that all?" he asked in a very odd voice. It seemed to me that he was trying – a little too strongly – to feign casual indifference to the answer to this particular question.

I blushed to the roots of my hair. "No," I whispered, and I saw the fingers of Erik's left hand clench the bedclothes for a moment.

"Where else?" Again, that obvious feigned indifference, as though it supposedly didn't matter a whit how I answered. He didn't fool me for a moment, however, and I felt a little knot of wanton giddiness curling up in my stomach, making me feel almost light-headed.

I took his left hand in mine; he shivered, and his eyes opened just a sliver more, but he offered no resistance. "Here," I murmured, putting it just above my breasts, "here," sliding it down my abdomen, clothed as it was, "h-here," letting it brush ever so lightly over the tops of my thighs through my skirts, and " _here,_ " I said in a hoarse whisper, putting his hand deep in the folds of cloth, down into that secret space even though it was covered by yards of fabric; he wasn't really touching me there, not with all these layers between, but it was the single wickedest thing I thought I had ever done, and it exhilarated and petrified me all at once.

"Your turn," I whispered with the last of my strength; my boldness was fading again, and part of me wanted to curl into a ball and hide. Erik hadn't moved, hadn't said anything, had barely _reacted_ , which was not at all what I had been expecting; I worried suddenly that I had offended him somehow, particularly when he suddenly withdrew his hand from me.

"Well," he said at last, in a very quiet voice, which trembled almost imperceptibly, "it appears my demure little flower has the mind of a man after all."

There was a moment's pause; not knowing what else to do, I let out a nervous little laugh. His gaze, I suddenly noticed, was fixed upon me with a kind of ravenous heat, and my breath caught in my throat.

"My body is…not so pleasing as yours," Erik said. "I am afraid I would invoke quite a different reaction were I to show you my own imagined depravities in kind."

I gulped a little. "No," I said, more bravely than I felt, "no, you wouldn't. Go on. Show me."

"Brave little soldier," he said with a somewhat grim smile. "You have a strong stomach, Christine."

" _Erik_ ," I said in near-exasperation, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh. Slowly, torturously, he took my right hand in his with shaking fingers.

"Here," he said, placing my fingertips gently at the base of his throat. He closed his eyes. "Here," he said again with a shiver, "and here," placing my hand on one side of his ribs, and then the other. Erik paused, his body stiffening in what I recognized as panic. I squeezed his hand, and he relaxed. "Are you quite sure you want me to continue?" he asked me, opening his eyes, and I nodded. "Yes," I said. "Please."

Erik stared at me for a long moment, and then did as I had asked. "Here," he whispered, tracing the jutting bones of his hip through his suit with my limp fingers. " _H_ _ere,_ " he said in an even lower whisper as he trailed my hand over his thigh, as I had done to him. His own hand was really trembling now, and his body was trembling too; I hardly dared to look him in the eye, because I was afraid that it would make him lose his nerve for what was surely going to come next. "Oh, Christine," he breathed, his hand and mine quivering together atop his thigh. "Tell me to stop, and I will."

"Don't stop," I said quickly, my cheeks hot, and Erik hissed between his teeth. As though he had gathered all of his remaining courage in a single moment, he yanked my hand down between his legs. " _Here,_ " he said in a rasping, ragged tone that sounded more like the sizzle of meat in the pan than an actual voice. My eyes widened; his trousers and the undergarments beneath provided far less obstruction than my heavy skirts had presented to his hand; I could feel the _shape_ of it, almost, a long and slender thing like him, tucked away neatly yet threatening to stir from its confines. I didn't know what I was doing, didn't know if this was what he wanted, but I slowly moved my fingers over that shape, over this alien, vulnerable thing, the knowledge and even vague awareness of which he had tried to conceal from me last night when he had moved his hips away from mine.

Erik's head tilted back and his body bucked against my hand. " _Christine,_ " he breathed, my name squeezing from his lips in a rush, " _Christine oh Christine yes my love, please yes please, PLEASE,"_ and all at once I felt the most peculiar, wonderful feeling begin to rise up in me so quickly that I almost felt sick with it. It was dizzying, utterly intoxicating. I held him in the palm of my hand, and he was _mine_ , and he would have done anything I asked at that moment and the moments after; I knew this with a kind of jagged clarity, but I had no desire to maliciously take advantage of it. Love drove me, love and care and curiosity and desire so sharp it took my breath away.

The shape in his trousers sluggishly grew beneath my clumsy, exploratory touch, hardening and straining against the fabric which held it at bay, and my heart went into my throat. I felt powerful, yes, but frightened too; I wondered suddenly if this would prove too overwhelming for him, if he could _die_ beneath my hand like this, and I gasped, almost pulling my hand away. But he was guiding it now, guiding my hand as his eyes fluttered shut and a series of entirely new sounds escaped his parted lips, and all of that convinced me to stay precisely where I was. Flushed and giddy with this new, unfamiliar happiness, I didn't protest and hardly even registered at first when he suddenly and violently began to fumble at the top of his trousers. I watched, like a sleepwalker, as he undid the buttons and reached inside to free himself.

 _Is it supposed to look like that?_ was my first thought, which I very quickly shelved in the attic of my mind before it could come to my lips. Asking that question aloud would almost certainly bring this astonishing little mid-morning tryst to an abrupt halt; he seemed to me to be in a kind of pleasurable trance, most of his deep-seated inhibitions having miraculously fallen away. The last thing I wanted to do was to shake him out of it by bringing scrutiny to any part of him – _most especially this part,_ I thought suddenly, for a vague memory had begun to surface in my head, a memory of one of the chorus girls giggling about how sensitive men were when it came to their –

I gave a sharp little gasp when Erik put my hand on that smooth, mottled length of flesh, but I certainly didn't complain. His eyes were tightly closed, and his hand was trembling over mine. "I love you," he said in a murmur which shook almost as much as his hand. "Oh, Christine, my sweet, my darling –" Suddenly, to my consternation, a note of horrified shame crept into his voice as he opened his eyes. "Little bird, forgive me, I can't imagine you want –"

"Show me, Erik," I whispered quickly, my face aflame. "Show me how to touch you."

A staggered groan escaped his throat, and he slowly wrapped my fingers around it. It seemed he had at last decided that if I was so dead set on this, he was not one to argue. "Up…" he said in a strained whisper. "And down. No, not lightly. Like this," and he squeezed my fingers a little, tightening my grip. Another shivering moan came out him, a little higher in pitch than the last, and a string of sensuous endearments streamed from his lips as I did what he had instructed.

I felt flushed with the strange duality of being both lover and student. Somehow his swift commands had put me briefly in mind of our voice lessons, but this was turning out to be a very different sort of tutelage; though he had often complimented me when I had performed my tasks well, never had I garnered _this_ sort of profuse, effulgent praise upon learning how to breathe properly or hitting a high note with perfect clarity.

Something was about to happen; I was certain of it. Erik had left off saying my name and uttering words of devotion – his mouth had opened, silent and wide, and his eyes were rolling up. I thought for a panicked moment that I _was_ killing him, but then a frenzied sound burst from his throat and a stream of sticky, slippery white fluid burst from the tip of him in my hand. _Oh,_ I thought, and a fascinated streak of delight shot through me. _Oh._

Erik's body went slack, his breathing heavy. He didn't look at me, his eyes raised instead to the ceiling. I sat in a sort of limbo, my fingers still limply wrapped around his softening member, confused and uncertain and suddenly feeling as though I had somehow done something wrong.

After a long moment, Erik closed his eyes and gently moved my hand away. "Is it possible," he asked quietly, "to feel both luminous bliss and crippling shame at the same time?"

I nervously licked my lips, which had become a bit dry. "I…I don't know," I said somewhat helplessly. "Is that…how you feel now?"

Erik nodded. I lay down beside him, waiting for some tenderness in the aftermath, waiting for him to tell me again that he loved me, but he didn't speak, and he still didn't look at me. Instead he slowly covered himself and buttoned up his trousers, seemingly ignoring the little spots of viscosity which glimmered in the dark thatch of hair between his legs. I self-consciously wiped my hand on the bedspread behind me, almost without thinking about it.

"Did I…do something wrong?" I asked in a halting voice, and then he looked at me with a start. "Christine," he said. "Christine, why would you think that?"

"Because…" I gulped back the sudden hot wave of emotion that threatened to prick at my eyes and throat and manifest itself in embarrassing tears. "Because…" I didn't know how to put into words how I suddenly felt sick that I had done this thing and he was not, as I had imagined, holding me and murmuring into my hair, but was acting cold and distant. As if I were not there, or perhaps as if somehow his estimation of my worth had been lowered after what I had done. I had thought it an act of love, but perhaps he thought it base, vulgar, even though in the moment he had seemed so enthusiastic.

All at once, however, Erik took my face in his hands. "Do you suppose for a moment that I am displeased with _you_ about what has just taken place?" he asked me incredulously. My vision blurred with tears that refused to be held back. "I don't know," I said. "I don't know, because you didn't say anything afterward, except that part of you felt ashamed."

"Do you truly want to know how I feel, Christine?" he asked me fiercely. "I feel disgusted with _myself._ I feel low and dirty and no better than the most vulgar longshoremen in the ports. I suppose that for a time I had come to think of myself as being almost above the sort of impulses that drive the rest of the male species, and to find that I am not so controlled as I had previously surmised is…unsettling. But for _you_ I feel nothing but overwhelming tenderness, a kind of painful, bittersweet rapture. I cannot fathom why you have done this, but you are nothing short of angelic for having so indulged my extraordinarily crass inclination."

I wiped furiously at my eyes, but it was no use; hot tears streamed down my face. "I'm sorry," I sobbed. "I'm sorry I made you feel ashamed. I wanted to make you h-happy."

Erik sucked in a breath between his teeth and then he really did hold me, pressing several kisses to the top of my head. "You did," he whispered. "Oh, little bird, you did, it isn't that, you don't understand."

"It wasn't c-crass," I said with a few little hiccups between sobs. "We're m-m-married. I th-thought – "

"Christine," Erik said in a tight voice, "My shame has nothing to do with you, or rather, it has nothing to do with what you did for me. There are…there are not enough adequate words in _any_ language to describe the pleasure you just gave me."

My hiccups quieted as he spoke, and gradually faded away. Erik's fingers moved through my hair like fish in the stream. "I feel," Erik said in a very low voice, "as though I have irrevocably stained you with my sins. _That_ is the source of my disquiet. Perhaps it's the lingering Catholic in me; shame was all I knew as a child. It was my catechism. My mother saw to that. I suppose I ought to remember what you said before…that in punishing myself, I punish you as well. But I cannot fathom it, Christine; I cannot fathom that you willingly did this for me."

I closed my eyes; my love for him welled up in me again, fierce and full and overwhelming.

"I want you to know," I said suddenly, burying my face in his shirt, "that if we do this again – and I _do_ want to do it again, or something like it, I _do_ , and you don't have to feel ashamed – I want you to hold me afterward, just like this, do you understand? Don't draw away, don't be cold and aloof and immersed in a sea of self-hatred. I love you, and I want you. Perhaps this isn't the way it's supposed to be; perhaps we should both feel ashamed. But I don't think it's like that, Erik, I truly don't. I think we're meant to delight in it, in each other. I don't want to be prim anymore. I _want_ to delight in this. I think…I think it's how I'm made. Do you think I'm vulgar for that?"

Erik had grown so still, one hand on my back, the other in my hair. "No," he whispered. "No, sweeting. You are quite possibly the least vulgar person I have ever known."

"And you love me," I said, lifting my head and meeting his eyes with mine. It was part statement, part question.

Erik shuddered. "With my whole soul," he said in a trembling voice. "With every breath of life I have left in me, Christine."

I pressed a dozen kisses to his face and mouth, and he held me, and he no longer spoke of shame.


	18. Chapter XVIII - Alternatives

It had grown very quiet in my bedroom during the several minutes that we were locked in each other's arms; at length Erik pulled back a bit from my embrace, searching my face, his eyes soft.

"What…what do you suppose we should do now?" I asked in what was almost a mumble, and then his eyes moved over the rest of me in a way that made me very aware of the warm, insistent pulse between my legs. There was a little slippery dampness of my own there, and I shifted my thighs together, trying and failing to ignore it.

"Before this is taken any further, I have…questions," Erik said, his voice strangely tight, and I swallowed, not sure where this was leading. "Go on, then," I said bravely, though my voice was very quiet. "Ask whatever you'd like."

Erik blinked, and took a deep breath, as though he were preparing to submerge himself underwater. "How far," he began, and then hesitated, seeming to gather his courage. He closed his eyes and took another breath. "How far, Christine," he asked, "do you wish this to go?"

I felt a tremor run through me. "Right now?" I asked softly. Erik opened his eyes, but his gaze avoided mine somewhat. "Right now," he agreed, "and… _or_ …in the foreseeable future."

I hadn't entirely anticipated this; I had more or less assumed that what I had just done would cement the fact that the old rules no longer applied. I remembered then that Erik was hardly ever one to presume something of this nature to be obvious – and little wonder, I supposed, given that presumption in human interaction had likely been a luxury throughout his life that he had rarely felt he could afford. But I was touched that he still felt the need to ask, even after all of this, for his attitude at this moment seemed a bit more profound than simple reticence. It felt more akin to a kind of reverent respect.

I gently laid my hands on either side of his face; he stiffened for a split second, but relaxed beneath my touch. "Perhaps this is a bit forward," I said, "but I think…if it's not too much trouble, I think I should like you to…to return the favor, so to speak." My cheeks were hot and I was certain that they were blushing as brightly as the moon, but I held steady.

"Speak plainly, Christine," Erik said, his voice dropping in pitch, and his eyes, when I met them, were darkened and hungry. I sucked in a breath.

"I want you to touch me," I whispered. " _Really_ touch me. Everywhere I showed you. But…" I suddenly looked around a bit helplessly. "This bed is so narrow," I said in exasperation, wriggling a little. "It was never made for two."

"Where do you suggest we continue this, then?" he asked, and the timbre of his voice made a tremble go up my spine, a sharp tingle of anticipation. I felt it in my belly, my breasts, between my legs. "I don't…I don't know," I said in a rush. "The other bed, the one in Mama's old room, is…significantly larger. But I…no, we couldn't possibly do anything of this sort in there. It would be too strange."

"We shall have to make do, then," Erik murmured, "in this cramped little space, which is nonetheless very appealingly feminine," and he pulled me against him, the corners of his mouth faintly turning up when I gave a little gasp of delight. Suddenly he rolled me over so that I was facing away from him; his torso and hips were pressed tightly to my back and his hand roved down my stomach and side. _Too many clothes,_ I thought with a shred of irritation amidst the haze of bliss that his touch provided, and it seemed Erik had similar thoughts, because he brought his mouth very close to my ear, lightly tapped the buttons of my basque, and whispered, " _Off._ "

A hot, dizzy thrill sliced sharply through my body at this slightly unexpected but welcome command, followed by a wave of tenderness when, as usual, he swiftly remembered himself and whispered, "Please."

"As my _maestro_ commands," I murmured, and I felt him shiver behind me. Oh, yes, he liked that very much, didn't he? I was in control, really, but my deference was a kind of implied illusion, almost like an erotic game. I knew, now that I trusted him, that at any time I could ask for this to stop and it would, without question. That cocooned feeling of safety was very emboldening indeed.

My fingers moved quickly over my buttons to undo them, and I sat up briefly to shrug out of my basque. My face flushed with pleasure as I heard a soft, appreciative sound behind me. It seemed a little crass to simply drop my basque on the floor, but I didn't seem to have much choice as getting up to hang it in my wardrobe seemed a trifle too mundane and ordinary, a strange and jarring break in the rhythm of what we had begun.

I peeked coyly over my shoulder as I let my basque fall to the floor beside the bed. "What would you like me to do next?" I asked, and Erik swallowed hard, reaching out his hand to brush against the waistband of my skirt. "Off?" I queried with a coquettish little smile, and Erik nodded meekly.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and stood up, facing away from him again as I unbuttoned and untied. My skirt slowly sank to the floor around my shins, followed by my petticoat. Erik exhaled sharply behind me, and I was caught at once between the thrill of being looked at and the vulnerability of being exposed.

I sat back down on the bed again, bending over to take off my shoes, and suddenly I felt Erik draw a little closer, his fingers trailing lightly over the laces and lines of my corset. I shivered as he pressed a soft kiss to the small of my back.

"Could…" I licked my lips nervously, not quite brave enough yet to turn around. "Could you unlace me? I've managed on my own for a while, since Emilie left, but it's ever so much easier when someone else can do it for me."

Erik made no reply, but I felt his cool, trembling hands on my back. My eyes fluttered shut as he carefully, slowly undid the knots and loosened the ties. "Like this?" he asked quietly, and I nodded, unclasping the corset from the front and removing it entirely. I sat there silently for a moment, my back still to him, his hands still hovering. I could feel them in the air behind me, tracing my shape just as I had previously imagined, and I looked over my shoulder again at Erik. He looked utterly transfixed, though the expression turned to something more like embarrassment as he glanced up at my face and saw me looking at him. "You are the loveliest thing I have ever beheld," he breathed. "Poets and artists could try, but they could never hope to successfully capture your likeness or to do your beauty justice in painting or verse."

My cheeks flushed and I shifted a bit, my knees and thighs rubbing together as I felt a little throb between. "What should I do now?" I asked softly, and his eyes raked my barely-clad frame with all the wild worshipfulness of a starved fanatic. "Come here," he whispered. "Come back to me."

I gladly did as he asked, sliding my legs back up onto the bed and letting out a sigh of pleasure as he enfolded me in his arms. "Do you know how beautiful you are, Christine?" he murmured into my skin, his mouth on my neck. I arched my head back and clutched at his vest, letting out a soft sound as the tip of his tongue traced a swift path up the column of my throat. "I…suppose…that I ought to, given how often you tell me so," I breathed.

"Do you mind it?" he asked, turning me over again and biting down lightly on my shoulder. "That I tell you so often?" I wriggled against him, and his roving hand found its way up under my camisole, sliding over the bare skin beneath as he let out a little gasp.

"Answer me, Christine," he said between his teeth, and my eyes closed again. "I don't…mind it," I whispered. "I like it."

"And this?" he breathed softly into my ear. "Do you like this?" His fingers were skimming over my abdomen, slowly traveling higher and higher.

" _Yes,_ " I moaned, and Erik let out a swift breath. "And this?" he asked in a shuddering whisper as his fingers lightly traced the swell of my breast. I let out a soft little cry in response, and Erik buried his face in my hair, his hand slowly cupping and fondling first one breast, then the other. He told me he loved me, over and over again, and I murmured it back to him as my body quivered, my heart beating out an ecstatic refrain of _finally, finally_ as he touched me.

At length his hand dropped down, moving slowly over my ribs and stopping abruptly at the waistband of my drawers. There was a long moment of silence, and we were both very still but for the sound and motion of our breathing; my pulse pounded in my ears as I grasped his hand in mine and drew it gently down between my legs.

I wore drawers that had a slit in the underside; I didn't see the point in wearing undergarments that buttoned up, as they made natural functions a trifle more difficult. Another benefit of these particular undergarments, I just then realized, was that they provided far less hindrance in situations like these. Erik inhaled sharply as his fingers slid down; to my consternation, he lifted his hand after a moment. I realized he was intently studying the wetness on his fingertips.

"Is this a sort of…byproduct of desire?" he asked, and I nodded, my face warm. "Fascinating," he said in that sonorous voice, and I felt a tingle go down my spine. "Will you show me?" he whispered. "Show me how, just as I showed you?"

My cheeks grew even warmer. "I…I'm not quite…I don't…that is, I've never…well…once…my fingers began wandering during a bath, but I felt so wicked that I stopped almost at once and I never did it again."

I glanced beside me to see Erik tilting his head.

"What is it?" I asked uncertainly.

"You," he said, but not unkindly. "You are a puzzling amalgamation of prurience and purity. I have observed and overheard enough to know that women are not, by and large, the prim and passionless creatures that society would paint the ideal of them to be. But even so, they would appear by all accounts to be the more restrained of the two sexes in their personal habits. Is that a consequence of biology?"

"I don't…I don't know," I said, feeling very flustered. Now was not the time for Erik the Scientist to appear, but appear he had, and I was so caught off guard that I made no attempt to steer the conversation back to its original course. "When I was young…I went to church. The parson was all fire and brimstone and I vividly remember a particular sermon about the evils of…of touching oneself. It made me very uncomfortable. Perhaps that was why. At least for me."

"Ah, yes," Erik said, a little bitterness creeping into his voice. "Society, or more particularly religion, then. I am familiar with that specific discomfort. Not that I… ever really allowed it to stop me, particularly when I was a much younger man."

"Oh?" I asked curiously. I rolled over and saw that the tips of his ears had turned pink. "You can't possibly want me to be so candid as to tell you more, Christine," he said.

I flushed a little. "And what if I do?"

Erik's eyes swept down my body again, and I wriggled closer to him. "Then you are far more astonishing than I have ever credited you, Christine Deschamps," he said, running his fingers through my hair. "But it would appear that I have some unfinished business to attend to at the moment."

"I don't know how to show you," I murmured, "not quite, but I can try. Would you like that?" Erik nodded wordlessly. "Perhaps we can learn together," I said, and he met my mouth in a welcome kiss. We kissed for a long time, until I felt dizzy and warm and aching; I took one of his hands and guided it to the apex of my thighs again, this time slipping it down under the waistband of my drawers.

As I slid his hand down, one of Erik's fingers brushed against something that sent sparks off through my body, the same place I had discovered with my wandering hands during my bath. He noticed my little gasp, and looked at me intently, his finger remaining in the spot. "Here?" he asked quietly, and I quickly nodded. "What is this?" he asked me, his finger moving just a little from side to side atop the swollen nub. "I don't…know, but…it's good," I breathed. My eyes were half-closed but I could see him looking at my face, his eyes fairly glittering with careful delight and fascination. After a moment, however, his movements down there began to feel slightly awkward, almost painful.

Erik was as observant as ever, and he swiftly noticed my minute change in expression. "Christine, am I hurting you?" he asked, lifting his hand a bit. "Should I stop?"

I shook my head violently. "What should I do, then?" he asked softly. "Tell me, _gudinna._ Don't be silent. Tell me what to do. Please."

I felt strange giving him commands, but he had asked, and I was nothing if not obliging. I remembered what I had done in the bath, before I had felt overcome with guilt and had forced myself to stop. "Try…moving in circles," I whispered, gesturing in the air, and then winced as he tried. "Little circles," I said. "Gently. Please."

Erik was far more hesitant now, but he did as I asked, and his mouth turned up when I let out a high, soft breath and moved against his hand.

" _Just_ like that, Erik, just like that, oh, _please_ don't stop unless I tell you," I gasped, and through my fluttering eyelids I saw Erik's faint smile widen into something more like a grin.

I writhed beneath his touch, sounds coming unbidden from my throat. The light, circular rhythm of his fingers – two now – scarcely changed, slow and sweet and setting me aflame. "Beautiful woman," he said between his teeth, his gaze as ravenous as that of the wolf he had warned me about. "Beautiful, sweet, maddening Christine. Tell me you love me."

"I love you!" I cried out, swirls and shocks of pleasure spiraling throughout my body and beginning to build in scope, a sort of gathering crescendo. "Oh, Erik, I love you! Don't stop!"

"Christine," he breathed as he continued his ministrations, though they began to pick up speed almost imperceptibly. "Oh, Christine. _My_ Christine. _Mine._ "

"Yes," I gasped, and then the crescendo came upon me, like a crashing wave, and I closed my eyes tightly as I let out something like a wail. He didn't stop, and I was breathless and almost blind with delight as the wave descended mercilessly upon me again and again in swift succession.

"Stop…stop," I finally managed with a sob of air, and lay panting beside him, my brow covered in a thin sheen of sweat. I curled into him and wrapped my arms around his neck, peppering his cheek and jawline with kisses.

"It was…it was good, I take it," Erik said with faint bemusement.

"It was _lovely_ ," I whispered, hardly able to put it into words. I understood what he had meant now, when he had told me there were not adequate words in any language to describe it.

Erik ran his lips over my brow, my closed eyelids. "Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

"It's you I ought to be thanking," I murmured hazily, tendrils of glowing, tender happiness spreading all throughout me. I nuzzled the base of his throat, where he had told me he wanted to be touched, and he shivered. "Christine, I have…desired before, even fancied myself in love before, but nothing, _nothing_ has ever been remotely comparable to this terrible, beautiful ache and fairly dizzying satisfaction. I have never cared half so much for any other person in all my long and weary years of living. My love for you…overwhelms me, utterly. It fills me to the brim and tattoos itself upon my very bones."

"Yes," I whispered. "It sometimes feels as though I'm overflowing with it. It seizes me and doesn't let me go, but I don't mind it. I don't feel trapped. I feel… _alive._ "

"Exactly that," Erik said. "Exactly. Oh, Christine, I really think that you will never cease to astound me."

There was more I wanted to ask him, more I wanted to say, but my eyelids were heavy, and his hands were cool but his arms were warm, and I was relaxed now beyond measure. I slowly fell into sleep, with his blissful murmurings echoing in my ears.

* * *

When I woke, I was alone in the bed, and I sat bolt upright with panic. "Erik?" I called loudly, beginning to think perhaps I had dreamed the whole thing. The clock on my bedside told me that I had been asleep for at least two hours. "Erik!"

"Here, Christine," I heard him call from beyond my slightly ajar bedroom door. I had been covered with a blanket but I realized that I was still in nothing but my stockings and underthings, and despite what had recently occurred, I felt strangely self-conscious.

I slid off the bed and swiftly put on my petticoat, but had little desire to put my corset on again at the moment. My basque and skirt were a trifle wrinkled, and I hung them up for ironing later; in place of them, I put on a light tea gown, something Mama had bought for me ages ago for when I was relaxing at home from my studies at the Conservatoire. Tea gowns were meant to be worn without corsetry, and I felt very comfortable and pretty in it.

I didn't bother with putting on my shoes or even a pair of slippers, which felt mildly scandalous, but it was only Erik. Add to that the fact that it no longer seemed that Erik was merely a guest in my flat – everything had changed in the course of just a few hours, and it no longer seemed wanton or wicked of me to be glad of it. Erik was my lover now, my husband in far more than a superficial sense. We had not, it was true, consummated our marriage in a strictly ordinary fashion, but it had felt like a consummation nonetheless.

I opened my door and stepped out of the hallway into the parlor, but saw no sign of Erik until I poked my head around the corner of the kitchen.

"Good afternoon," he said, and his voice sent a familiar tremble up my spine, leaving little tingles everywhere he had touched me. "Good afternoon," I said softly. "What's all this?"

"I thought perhaps you might be hungry," Erik said, "so I took the liberty of seeing what you had available for a repast. We should perhaps have taken a short trip to the market this morning, when you suggested going to your flat. I apologize for not thinking of it earlier. I was, I think, feeling a trifle…single-minded."

A small giggle escaped my lips in spite of myself. "I was too," I admitted. "I'm sorry I don't have much more than biscuits. Thank you for making tea."

"You're welcome," he said quietly, and then as I sat down at the little breakfast table, he abruptly appeared to notice both the change in my apparel and my stockinged feet poking out from beneath my dress. His gaze lingered below my hem for a long moment and then quickly flicked back up to meet my eyes. He had the slightly cornered look of a man who was trying to be nonchalant. "You look…lovely," he said, and his voice was strangely shy and careful.

I smiled at him, and I saw a flush appear on his chin. He ducked his head and poured the tea from the pot into two of my china cups, adding two cubes of sugar to mine. "Not quite as strong as I prefer it," he said, handing me my cup and settling into the seat across from mine with his, "but it will do."

We sipped our tea in silence for a few minutes; the air was not awkward, thankfully, nor was it entirely comfortable, but something in-between.

"Erik," I finally said, feeling warmth creep up the back of my neck, "I like being married to you."

Erik swallowed his tea a little too quickly and coughed. "I…" His amber eyes met mine, bearing a mildly startled look which quickly softened. "I find I very much like matrimony myself," he said softly, his gaze darting away. He was as shy as a schoolboy all over again, and I felt a sweet, twinging ache in my heart. It didn't seem possible that only days before, I had worried myself almost sick wondering if I loved him. My love for him seemed as natural now as breathing.

I took another sip of tea and cleared my throat. "In the bedroom…you requested I tell you how far I wanted this to go in the foreseeable future," I said, "and I didn't answer that part of the question. I think I'd like to answer it now."

Erik's eyes fixed on my face for a swift moment. He said nothing.

I bit my lip. "I…perhaps this is already quite obvious, given what's happened…but I don't want us to sleep in separate rooms," I said in a rush. "I want to share your bed. Or you to share mine."

Erik slowly sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving my face. "Sharing a bed can mean multiple things," he said, "some more innocent than others." His tone was very careful.

I blushed. "Well," I said softly, "I suppose that largely depends on whether or not you are comfortable with the sort of less innocent activities that might be implied."

"Are _you_ comfortable with those implications?" he asked pointedly, and my blush grew deeper. "Yes," I said. "I believe I am now."

Erik sighed, putting down his cup. "I am aware," he said, "that it is somewhat uncomfortable to speak plainly about these things, but I tire of speaking in mere inferences. What, _specifically_ , are you referring to, Christine?"

The room had grown far too warm, and I was beginning to feel a little dizzy. "Consummation," I finally said bluntly, not sure how else to put it, "in a more traditional sense, that is. Becoming one."

Erik closed his eyes for a moment, and I almost began to wonder if I had offended him. "Christine," he said at last, "that is…extraordinarily generous of you."

"But?" I asked with a little knot in my gut, for the word had been heavily implied by his tone.

Erik opened his eyes, though he did not look directly at me, and I had the sense that he was, again, choosing his words very carefully. "I did not _expect_ this, exactly," he said, "though our current…level of intimacy caused me to think the matter over while you rested. I had never truly given myself cause to contemplate it in a less fantastical and more pragmatic sense until very recently indeed, and I have reached a somewhat unpleasant but – I think – necessary conclusion." He hesitated, taking a deep breath. "I will try not to insult you by insinuating any sort of overt _na_ _ï_ _vet_ _é_ , my love, but the sort of thing to which you are referring could have…consequences, and I am unsure as to whether or not you have considered them."

I made no reply. His eyes finally met mine, and they were pained. "I am not young, Christine," he said, his voice pinched, though there was quiet tenderness in the way he reached his hand across the table to lay his fingers atop mine, "nor am I particularly healthy, but you are young and healthy both, and that is all that might matter. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I said quietly. "I know. There could be…" My words caught in my throat for a moment. "There could be a…a child. But there are ways, Erik, to prevent – "

"Christine," he said, and there was a building exasperation in his voice, "I am touched – astounded, really – that you are even considering this, but I am unwilling to take even the smallest risk in this regard. I cannot imagine suffering you to bear my spawn, particularly as it would be more than likely that you would be raising the child as a widow, alone."

I struggled to take a breath, feeling winded beyond expression at the very thought. "I know," I said again with an effort, and the knot in my gut grew tighter. "I…I just thought that…"

"Christine, as we just recently discovered in that little room of yours, there are… _very_ pleasant alternatives to activities that could result in children," Erik said, and I saw a bit of color come into his face. I smiled almost involuntarily as Erik leaned his forehead into his palm. "It still feels a bit unreal," he murmured. "So many of the events of the past several days feel somewhat dreamlike, but _that_ …that was something else entirely. Your soft hands bringing me to my pleasure, and the feel of you beneath my fingers as you allowed me to bring you to yours – " He shivered, and I took his other hand in mine, bringing it to my lips and pressing it to my cheek. "I want to do it again," I whispered. "And again, and again. I want to sleep in your arms every night and wake in them every morning." I felt a giddy, dizzying happiness, the energy of which seemed to fairly vibrate through my body, all the way into the soles of my feet. _This is it,_ I thought, _this is what being in love is like, or at least a kind of overwhelming infatuation – this flushed excitement and this heady thrill of possibilities. I felt it before, just a little, the day that Raoul kissed me. But this has surpassed it by leaps and bounds._

Erik lifted his head from his hand, staring at me with a mixture of adoration and astonishment. "What have I done to deserve you, Christine?" he asked me, and I let out a swift giggle again, kissing each of his knuckles in turn. A certain look slowly flared in his eyes, and I felt my insides turn to jelly. "I should perhaps inform you," he said slowly, "that I am somewhat of a fitful sleeper. I find it difficult to get more than a few hours of sleep at a time, and I often rise from my bed in the middle of the night to occupy my sleepless mind. I cannot imagine that arrangement to be very conducive to your rest on a consistent basis."

"I suppose if you must get up," I said with a shrug, "do it quietly. Or wake me too, on nights when I don't have a rehearsal or performance the next day."

"Sometimes…" he said, and his voice grew very quiet and pensive, "sometimes…I have very bad dreams."

"Then I shall be your comfort upon waking from them," I said softly, "if you'll let me."

Erik regarded me uncertainly, but his grip on my hand tightened. "You are so much more than I deserve," he said. "I don't understand it, but I won't complain."

"Good," I murmured, and got up from my seat to give him a swift kiss. "What say we clear the table and spend the rest of the afternoon on my sofa?"

"Oh, I rather think we can hold off on clearing the table," Erik muttered as he threaded his fingers through my hair, the glint in his eyes having not abated in the slightest. "The dishes will wait."


End file.
